23 JULY 1994, Page 28

Insomnia

The moon woke me, the pocked and chalky moon that floods the garden with its silvery blue and cuts the shadow of one leafy branch across this bed of ours as if on to bright snow.

The sky is empty. Street lights and stars are all extinguished. Still the moon flows in, drowning old landmarks in a magic lake, the chilly waters lapping at my pillow, their spell relentless as this cold unhappiness in which I lie awake.

Elaine Feinstein