Dublin 2009: A lullaby

by Susan Abraham

When sleep came, it wasn’t at all from a soothing scented lotion that slipped with feverish shine into my skin, a humble biscuit or marshmellows dipped into my  nightcap like cherries would embrace a foamy ice-cream.

It wasn’t from a novel or a Kindle read. I didn’t think the fluffed-up pillows could tell its Sandman tale. But rather bring on the jazzman.

For wasn’t it then that The White Cliffs of Dover drummed up by the seductive fingers of the late Charlie Kunz would woo my yawns and summon up snores for a quick foxtrot. And so my dreams waltzed engagingly on to its lullaby.

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