Upstairs at Eric’s

the best night’s sleep I ever had,

except that one night in the wilderness

where I slept alone and exhausted

for a while as I ran away from society

in order to find myself.

 

My Grandfather’s spare bed

at the top of the stairs, a set of rooms

he had not seen since the late seventies

as his baring and his weight meant

he slept downstairs till the day he died,

was by far the greatest bed of all.

 

The old Victorian room,

small but perfectly finished,

last decorated sometime in the days

of Heath and the three day week,

was a reminder of how much I loved

terrace housing now I lived in a detached house.

 

I saw your face looking down at me with calmness

and a slight edge of annoyance

as I had actually slept to the point

where I was late meeting you

but my Granddad being very cool

let you upstairs knowing you would forgive me.

 

Exhausted, I lay back in the hunting cabin

I had found and crawled onto the mattress

and there I stayed, no sign of existence,

and I realised that in amongst the taste of pine

the aroma of bear and the sound of Roger Hodgson singing

Breakfast in America, that no one was going to wake me.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015