Dragon Hill

Upon a moonless midnight
lit only by the orange-sludge-glow of Swindon's distant light
I wrestle with a stark south-westerly
to raise and grip then peg my tent into your chalky skull

But the cold claws of the night
reach inside my sleeping-bag-sleep
like the perfect thief
to steal away my body’s wishful heat

Thus rudely awoken
again and again and again
I curl and press and knot myself around myself in vain pursuit
of the warmth required to rekindle sleep

But upon the cusp of dawn
my nocturnal shenanigans are rewarded
with a morning stiffie
as proud and as familiar
as any knight's trusty sword

Long Live The Dragon! he sings
and Long Live Saint George!