The Forgery

I often have trouble sleeping. Although lying wide awake for hours with nothing but your thoughts is faintly horrifying, I do occasionally get a poem out of it. Here’s one I wrote a few nights ago, listening to the noises outside my window.

The wind funnels furious
through bare tree branches
and leaves the sound of breaking waves.

The forgery’s so perfect
my roadside flat’s transported
to a coastline cottage.

A train passes
with the harsh exhale
of an inrushing tide.

I toss and turn
in my ocean bed
afraid of drowning
and waking on a different shore.