Counting Sheep
Single figures and your imagination
has them as vague outlines,
the cracked artex of the ceiling
standing in for a fence.
Double figures and you’ve mapped out
the rest of the farm, a swathe
of woodland over the bedroom door
just to the right of a duckpond in the shape
of that irritating patch of mould
unshifted by sugar soap and elbow grease.
Three figures and they’re bounding
all over the place, clouting the lightshade
and worrying the coving. You’ve lost count.
You give up on sleep, wander downstairs
for a glass of water, leave them
in their endless parade above your bed.
Neil Fulwood was born in 1972, the son of a truck driver and the grandson of a miner. Nobody’s quite figured out where the whole poetry thing came from. Neil is married, holds down a day job and subsidises several public houses. He hopes one day to be recognised in the New Year’s honours list for his tireless efforts in this respect.