At The End Of The Day (bp coyle)

I’m in bed, sipping a glass of ten year old single malt with the collected poems and drawing of Stevie Smith open on my knees.

It’s after midnight, the world quite, just a fox making that Godawful sound foxes make.

The house is still, everyone resting, dreaming, rejuvenating after their long day. I can hear heavy breathing through the walls, one or two soft snores, a sigh.

The curtains are open and a thin waxing moon is visible for a moment through fast moving clouds.

This is the best time of all, everyone is home, safe. No one ill or in pain.

Sure, things are not perfect. When are they ever? Were any stars showing, there are a millions wishes I could make. Some I would make a thousand times over.

There’s a noise down below, one of the dogs is restless, nothing to worry about. I drink the remains of the whiskey and set the glass aside. My eyelids are too heavy to focus on the book any more.

I turn out the light and lie there with a smile.

You have the savour the little moments.

God knows, they don’t happen often.

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