Sleep story: a boat at anchor, after a difficult conversation — for a restless night

The bunk is narrow, and you have the whole of it. The water slaps against the side in twos and threes. The hull moves against the water in a slow, regular way.

The boat is anchored in eight metres of water, and the chain makes a sound as it moves. The harbour is behind you, with three lights still on and the rest dark. The rope to the anchor creaks as the boat turns very slightly.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Your chest can be still now.

Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

Through the hatch you can see one star, and then the mast crossing it. The cabin is low, and you have to bend your head to get into the bunk.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Feel your wrists loosen.

Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Let your palms open if they were closed.

Nothing out here is in a rush, and neither are you. There is a torch hanging by the hatch, and a chart folded on the table.

Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other.

The blanket smells faintly of salt and diesel. Everything in the cabin is stowed, so nothing rattles.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.

You might be planning something. Notice the planning, then come back. If you're distracted by a sound, let the sound be the object for a moment.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

Let the room get slightly further away. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.

Let your breathing do the rest. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Sleep.

Nothing needs deciding tonight. Just the breath. Softer.

Difficult conversations leave a residue. This is for the residue.

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