Dragon Hill

Upon a moonless midnight
lit only by Swindon’s orange-sludge-glow
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
and steal away with my body’s naive heat

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

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!