I look deep into the mirror
And I notice I have aged before my time.
I see the caverns in my eyes
Pasty skin and sleep deprived.

I can count the lines upon my forehead,
Etched deep by years of surprise,
Of frustration,
Of surly indifference
And I am only through a score of years.

I could go to bed sooner,
For it is not down to an enterprising purpose,
Or a creative flair
That I am awake until five every morning,
Stubbornly refusing to
Fall
Into another twitchy sleep.

The dead of night is rarely punctuated here;
Only by another sleepless soul,
Just looking for a reason.
For what?

This peace is only ever broken
By the sounds of the birds
And their sweet melody
Of territorial threats,
Both for the safety of their nests
And for your intrusion upon their time.

They sing: “go to bed, go to bed, a dreamless sleep if you go to bed”.

I know now I will not feel fresh when I awake,
But in these bleak months,
I see nothing to feel fresh for.