A lighthouse at the end of a long day — a slow story for the end of the day, after eating too much — for winding down

Your coat is on the hook by the door, still wet at the shoulders. The room at the top is small, round and warm, with a kettle on a ring. The lighthouse turns once every fifteen seconds, and you have stopped counting it.

A ship passes in the distance with its lights on, and then it does not. The light goes out across the water and comes back, and goes out again. Below, the sea is doing what it does at night, which is mostly nothing.

Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Your ankles can go loose now.

The wind is doing a low, steady thing against the glass. The tea in your hands is too hot to drink and you are just holding it.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

The lighthouse will keep turning whether you watch it or not. The window is thick and slightly green at the edges.

Notice how you're sitting. Adjust if you need to. Then settle again. You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

Leave it there. They will find their own way out.

You can stop listening properly. Stay with the weight of your body. Nothing here needs following closely.

Do this sitting up, not lying down, if you have just eaten.

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