(4 May 1749 – 28 October 1806 / London)


The seagulls are crying,
and I am still trying
to get some sleep,
as, into my room, daylight creeps
through my bedroom window,
bringing with it a cold, eerie glow.
I glance at the time: five thirty five -
the world outside will soon be alive.
Whilst I've been laid here in my bed,
I've danced on the very edge
of sleep once or twice -
I think to myself 'Oh, how nice
it really would be,
if sleep would come and set me free.'

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Comments (1)

Some warm attachments A beautifully conceived inspirational song that is a pleasure to read,