A boat at anchor — a slow story for the end of the day, when you are somewhere unfamiliar — for winding down

There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly. Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it.

Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you.

Let your hands be completely still. Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part.

Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your palms open if they were closed.

Let the mattress take all of it. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk.

Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.

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

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

If you feel numb, that's a valid thing to feel. Nothing to fix. If nothing much is happening, that's not a problem. Nothing much is often the point.

Feel your cheeks let go. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.

Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Stay with the weight of your body.

Let the quiet be boring. Stay. Let it all get further away.

Slower. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Sleep.

It travels well. Hotels, spare rooms, other people’s sofas.

Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.