I convalesce under the counterpane
with the play of evening birdsong
and that blood rush roar of jets
lifting the propped sash higher
The late light on the roofline tiles
is almost that Mediterranean red
against the flat chalk-blue sky
but I am rolled up in Sussex
The same songs will find me
waking in the same place
as the light and sky are turned
and the curtains are ripped
Then this moment will return
of me laid low by the small efforts
which others do not notice –
I have lost the art of only being