Some days he lay in bed all morning.
Or sat up in sheets where once he had loved.

He said he slept poorly,
and "glittered" with worry.

Some days she would call, throughout the day.
He kept seeing crows.
Lying there, he dreamt of running,
the high fields of ripe hard-headed timothy.

He'd wake, mouthing the Jesus Prayer, to sunlight.
She'd call. And then he'd dream of running far into the hills,
of berries bursting like bloody hearts,
their tangles of thorns,
the windy hillsides.

Joe Ahearn | Five Fictions
Contents | Mudlark No. 5