I shouldn't start long poems late at night. It's dangerous. I lie in bed gripping a notebook in one hand, a pen in the other, eyes straining to stay open, scrambled brain trying to cough up lines that rhyme. But for some strange reason, I am often inspired late at night, and I am drawn to my spiral bound book lying tempting on my bedside table. I cannot resist the urge to finish it once I've started either. So by 11:30pm my foggy head finally registers the poem is finished, and I can finally unpry my rigid fingers from around the pen and go to sleep. However in the light of morning, I'm always quietly pleased I stuck at it. Here is the fruits of my weekend's late night writing.