Sometimes late at night in bed beside you
I sense a lightness in which I know that every world
has such a place, at the very centre of not wanting,
of just-being with every innate need fully met,
and where the soul lulls in a gentle sea.
I close my eyes, knowing that you’ve done the same,
knowing that for now there is no more that can be done.
The Owl and Pussycat float in some nutshell of a boat
that could be bed.
If harsh-edged morning wakes us, so what? For now,
this is the world, our world. It bobs lightly when waves lap
from undulating sea and slap reassuringly against its wooden sides.
From above we are blessed, the infinitely perforated canopy of night
rusting silver light flakes on water.