She wonders about small things, loose change, houses
Which turn into bright windowed reliquaries
Cold turns the day inside out, night rumples the bedding
The spectral hammock of stars.
Sleep will not alter the past, it just brushes out
Its tangles, hot neck, chilled feet walk in childhood’s shoes
To lost towns which rise on steep moors
How will she ever get there?
The sky is all cross stitched
Unpicking them takes too long.