The Bed: a poem with no rhyme nor reason nor discernible rhythm. By John Townshend

Cold winds blow through my wide open window.

Freezing in this moment; I look and listen.

You’re asleep. Outspoken in your dream.

An electric shiver up my back.

A foot kicks out. A cat climbs on.

Floating uphill I have been taken by the night.

A technicolour sky and bright green grass.

The tightrope bridge falls and I with it.

The cat jumps down. You’ve farted.