A boat at anchor (a sleep story), when you are short on time — for the hours after a late shift

The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.

There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

Feel your cheeks let go. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.

Your chest can be still now. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes.

Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it.

Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.

Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again. Notice any urge to check something. You can wait two more minutes.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

Let the next part go past without you. Let them.

Let the dark be ordinary. Let the room get slightly further away. Almost nothing to do now.

Sleep. Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges.

Pick this one when you are short on time.

There is nothing more to follow. Let the rest happen on its own.