After Guardian’s Poem of the week: Sleeping Out by Jane Routh
I did not believe in my instinct
nor the TV channel’s forecast,
came out for my own camping
to view stars and firmament;
Nature and instinct fail us
We follow these not knowing
They are empowering us more;
A duvet only cover on me
Me dreaming of poems
flow out of my imagination
running like a river, river dream
on the open ground, though chill.
Stepping on my body my improvised
Kitten mewing, perhaps escapism;
From the nearby home
Day and night are the same
for inmates, me dreaming
and composing my own way
what if it snows, when your
pen and mood are invitatory
for a different world;
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