THE FROGMORE POETRY PRIZE 2014

Richard Hughes

WEE WEE HOURS

So small, time shrinks
to red numbers
on oven and dishwasher;
each in its own zone,
silently mocking
the erratic tick
of your bare feet.

Alarmed by the body clock
you forget if the hour
went forward or back
at midnight.

Door handles recede
in this back pocket of time,
corners lose their edge.

Moonlight lays hands on
the kneeling waste bin's bald pate.

The tone deaf fridge hums
its interminable prayer.

So this is what goes on
behind our sleeping backs.

Outside, a curious frost
pricks up its ears.

You feel no need for company,
someone to sit with you
on the rush matting,
your blanket around her shoulders.



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