My demons come in the small hours of morning.
They gnaw at my sleep
And nudge unwelcome thoughts
Into my consciousness

‘You will never get this done’
‘Never get that done’
‘You are not doing enough!’

I can’t hear their voices
But I can feel their power

And all I seem to want to do
Is disappear into some kind of burrow
Deep in the earth

Somewhere I cannot be found
Where not even bad thoughts
Can penetrate my hiding place

Perhaps
In these winter months
I become like a mole
Who prefers not to see the world
Or be seen by it