Lions Don’t Wear Sunglasses

is the unlikely phrase which crashed on to

my consciousness as it was receding last night,

like an outgoing tide, but an outgoing tide

 

which was determined to have one last unwelcome surge

of wakefulness before the nothingness

of slumber got the upper hand.

 

‘Ignore it,’ I say. ‘It’s meaningless tosh.’

‘Meaningless tosh,’ I say, ‘is just the sort

of tosh upon which much of what I write

 

is founded. Also, good luck trying to sleep

without committing it to paper.’

Admitting that I have a point (or two),

 

I turn the light on, get my notebook out,

and scribble down the words: Lions don’t wear

sunglasses. Put the book down. Turn the light off.

 

I close my eyes and hope the tide of consciousness

will once again recede. Count backwards from five hundred,

getting sleepier… getting sleepier…

 

when, out of nowhere, You are made of custard.

‘Stay back!’ I say, like some poetic King Canute.

But this won’t work; the tide will not be told.

 

‘Don’t turn the light on. Do not write it down,’ I say.

‘It’ll only encourage the idiot

who keeps throwing you these morsels of madness.’

 

But it’s too late. The light is on. The notebook

is out. The words are being scribbled down.

I wonder if the cause of this sleep delay

 

is the basis of poetry,

or the basis of poetic angst,

as the light beside my bed goes out for good.

 

The tide stays out as I sail away to sleep,

where, eventually, I meet a pride of lions.

What if the crazy people are right? they say,

 

raising their eyebrows from

behind their spectacular

sunglasses.