A boat at anchor — a slow story for the end of the day, on a low-energy afternoon — for a racing mind

The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly.

Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it. The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Feel your cheeks let go.

Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way. The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

Notice any part of you that wants this to be over. If your mind has wandered, that's not a mistake. Noticing is the practice.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

Sleep. Let the breath be the only thing you are doing.

Just the breath. You do not have to count them. Slower.

Let the dark be ordinary. Nothing here needs following closely. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.

Low-energy afternoons are what this was written for.

I will stop here. The quiet will carry on without the words.