Some lucky people have a sleep
That is so solid, sound and deep
A minor riot wouldn’t wake
Such people and they seem to take
No interest in the kinds of sounds
With which a Cretan night abounds –
The summer blend of insect hums
Or winter rain that loudly drums
On any surface almost flat;
You spring up then, remembering that
The previous day had been so fine
You left the washing on the line.
The washing rescued, in you get
Some chairs at risk of getting wet
Then, fully wakened by the storm,
You lie beside their sleeping form.
Such little dramas pass them by;
Still soundly slumbering they lie
Their even breathing doesn’t check –
It makes you want to wring their neck.
