Hudson Greig, Contributor.
Two dormice curled in duvet nests,
Bleary-eyed listeners watching droplets race
Sideways, through streaks of orange light;
Tears on the face of the following moon.
Laundered pyjamas and pale feet
Warmed like toast by dry-eye heaters.
Legs to chest, curled into the arm rest
For fear of falling, afraid of the darkness;
Muddy plastic and discarded McDonalds.
We waited expectantly as you sat in front, thinking,
Road hushing on beneath
And wipers missing the part where they meet.
Thoughtfully, sonorous and slow,
You wrote out loud,
Left hand at ten, right around a thermos,
Birthing worlds which weighed our eyes,
Only to wake us again with laughter
Or slow our breathing with fear,
Until we found ourselves awoken,
Lifted from seats to shoulders in the cold,
Observing street-lit homes
Through half-shut eyes.
How many endings have we left behind?
Forgotten on the damp tarmac
Between Scotland and home