Last night

 

My head lay stiffly on my insomnia-soaked pillow

and my eyes bored into the ceiling which I could

see because the moon was awake too.

I looked up as always and thought about sheep

climbing fences and bleating with the strain

or grazing on ancient Scottish farmland swamped

in a soupy fog, like that day my family and I stood

on Hadrian’s ruined wall (now just Roman stones

strewn unlawfully about) as sheep roamed nearby.

I hopped over from England to Scotland and back

and shouted, “I’m in England! I’m in Scotland!”

I was not tired then as I was now, nor did I

have to look at the obnoxious monotony of a ceiling.

In the skeletal silver light I heard soft voices outside

on the grass beneath my window.

Murmurings of a female and a male together.

I leaned closer into the sound but could not distinguish

words or even him from her.

I raised myself and went to the

window into the moonlight and the whisperings

below and saw two silhouettes looking at one another.

It was quiet as they kissed and I could hear nothing.

And moments later I was asleep on my pillow.

NOTES OF AN UNDERGROUND HUMANIST

© 2014-2019 by Chris Wright