Sleep story: a lake before dawn, after eating too much — for an overtired night

Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday.

The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable. A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling.

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

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft.

Feel your wrists loosen. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your calves spread out and flatten.

Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet.

Your ankles can go loose now. Let the mattress take all of it.

The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move.

Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you. Notice any part of you that wants this to be over.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

Just the breath. Softer.

They will find their own way out. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let it all get further away.

Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer. Let the sound of this go soft at the edges. Let the quiet be boring.

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

Goodnight. There is nothing left to do.