Sleep story: a lake before dawn, after eating too much — for waking too early

The air is cold in a clean way, and smells of water and cut grass. Nothing on the lake is in a hurry, including you. The mist sits about a foot above the surface and does not move.

There is a wooden jetty a few metres out, with one plank that has gone grey and soft. The water makes a small sound against the posts, once every few seconds. The far shore is a dark line with no detail in it yet.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

The lake is completely flat, the way it only gets in the hour before the light comes. Your boat is tied up and moving just enough to be noticeable.

Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.

Somewhere behind you, a gate opens and closes. The sky is the colour of unpolished pewter.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

A single bird crosses the water low and slow, without calling. There is a coil of rope on the deck, still damp from yesterday.

Your ankles can go loose now. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice. Notice any tension that arrived while you weren't looking.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.

Stay with the weight of your body. Almost nothing to do now.

Slower. You can stop listening properly. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.

Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Nothing here needs following closely. Softer.

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

Let this be the last thing you listen to.