Night Boy

I never went to bed when I was told.
I came alive in the long quietness−
a sort of moonflower;
my head a rose
petalled with misgivings
lulled over to the windowsill
where I was small enough to perch
with the window wide-open.
I’d wrap the duvet around myself
the way a wave wraps foam
across its forebearers
when it crashes.
My breath was light
as a moth against the glass.
The street stretched out
beneath me in pearly relief
from the neighbours.
And the tea-stained moon,
magnificent to see by,
drew scudding clouds
across the Severn
to a once glittering Bristol.