Our lovely Triggers wrote this..

" Night"

I recently had cause to be sleepless. My little boy had the type of cough that has a mother sitting by his bed. It was hacking and relentless.
Ever since our boys were babies, and when they were beset by attacks of croup or instances of troubling coughs, we have sat with them at an open window. We have wonderful memories of them as little tots, exhilarated by the dark, compelled to break the silence with shouts of "Mr Fox, where are yoooou" or "hellllooo man on the moon!" 
Our invocations of the powers of "Dr.Night Air" have never failed!

We resorted to this course of action the other night. Since my son wasn't sleeping, he and I settled under a blanket, on a chair and looked out into the darkness.
There is an expectancy about outdoors in the middle of the night, a watchful quiet which only after a while - and certain mental adjustments - allows one into the experience. The noises of night are intriguing, faintly discernible. A rustling of foliage had me imagining wary little critters spilling from the undergrowth - amber eyed and vigilant; a distant fox's bark served as a resounding call to industry - the clocking-on klaxon to the night shift.

We sat in silence, my boy and I, giving our minds to the night and its theatre.

A little visiting breeze whipped up some perfumed air and took a procession of dry leaves on a cyclonic dance. I was mesmerised by the synchronicity of their movement - like shoals of fish moving as one; a rush here, a sway there and a final rising, en masse and snake like - charmed by the wind's instrumental.


Whether bewitched by drowsiness or intoxicated by the night, I set my mind's eye free - launched it from the window ledge to tumble with the elements, sway with the branches, float out over the houses and gardens, along the treacly waters of the River Clyde, swooping up and around the sage towers of Glasgow University before doubling back to flit, flit, butterfly like amongst the architectural intricacies and beauty of the Art Galleries. Unencumbered by the physical or fettered by reasoning, I looked down on Mother Glasgow, cradling her diverse society - asleep behind darkened windows. The strains of the wind crooned a futile lullaby for those whom sleep eluded.

Dreamlike, I continued my ascent into the cold air, inexorably drawn to the distant lights and the heat and the beat of the city centre where sporadic groups of late revellers wended their way home. Through a delicate lace of fog which fizzed on my skin, I surged onwards, further and faster, higher and higher, then a steep descent down, down and under a bridge...to where a homeless man slept - somebody's son - foetal and famished and alone. I stayed with him for a while...



When I had rallied my faculties and was back in the comfort of our big chair,  it became obvious from his deep and even breathing that my boy had fallen asleep. When I at last got him tucked up in bed, I marvelled once again at the efficacy of Dr. Night Air! 
As I eventually closed the window on the outside world, and retreated gratefully to the fabric and folds of this - my nest - at last I too could surrender to enchanted sleep.
 The birdsong would begin soon, heralding the new day's beginning.
Yet to have realised the treasures in this one's ending - I was glad to have been sleepless for one glorious, unsung night.


I am happy to report my son is now back to full health!