Prayer : Matins (3a.m.)

In this hour of dairymen and postal workers,
            when the night-mail rushes north
            along the estuary,
            where fishing boats return
with hopeful holds:
                        I am restless. Comfort me.

In this hour of dustbin men and urban foxes;
            this hour of feral vixens
and of badgers;
            hour of owls,
hour of bats,
            when little’s ever said:
                        I am restless. Comfort me.

In this party hour, I seldom see these days;
            this hour of song
and dance
and staying wild;
            this transient hour
of burning more
            than midnight oil,
            of baggy talk
beneath the stars
            that never quite put anything to rights:
                        I am restless. Comfort me.

Hour of antipodean suppers.
            Hour of ill-timed international calls.
            Hour of the phone call
no one hopes to hear.
            Hour of news in print,
of fantasies:
                        I am restless. Comfort me.

Still hour, of slightest sounds;
            of mice patrolling flagstones
for a scrap;
            of spiders spinning nets
to catch the dew:
                        I am restless. Comfort me.

Cold hour, when candles gutter on the sill,
            when the last brick of turf
            powders in the grate
            and all the stars
we cannot name
            burn on in our absence
in the domino night:
                        I am restless. Comfort me.

Hour of children’s fevers and of medicine;
            of chronic nightmares
wanting consolation;
            deliberate hour
of watching them in sleep,
            of stooping to listen
for breath at the lips:
I am restless. Comfort me.

Hour of the chair
            in the square
of moonlight.
Frustrated hour
of deepest rest.
Deep hour of change.
Most sacred hour of you & I
asleep,
together,
  one more night, I pray:

I am restless. Comfort me.