Cold of the night began to seep
into sleeping bag.
The type of chill that groundsheet
could not still.
Unstaved, to snore and grumble
in undreamed sleep.
Comatosed hand scratched at arse
within quilted cocoon,
replied with a grunt and a fart of
satisfaction as, deep and low,
the rumbling began.
Dull throve of engine getting closer,
churning up the skies to
whip the air,
and rip the flimsy tent away.
No longer sheltered,
at visitors, he gasped and gapped.
At first light and contact,
now totally awake.
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