Maggie Butt

What Would I Give

to hear again, beyond my leaden limbs,
their voices calling from the wakeful world,
the sounds which wash like closing waters – skim
above my head, my body’s foetal furl,
my eyelids’ weight – and lap me far adrift
in dreams. So snuggly-warm and unaware
it would be cruel spite to make me lift
my head, to shake and haul myself upstairs.

Then I imagine, one more time, I feel
the strength of arms which gather me aloft,
still more asleep than not, safe in the steal
and rhythm of their steps, until the soft
of pillowed kiss. However long I live,
to feel that one more time, what would I give?