The seagulls are crying,
by Angela Wybrow
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.'