you hear at
work (or play) each night in the roof space
will have left not a trace,
not even an echo, by dawn.
y wanderings above your head, your bed,
the open book, half-read,
the clock and the glass, half-full, will
but a dream
when the sun turns the curtains from black
to blue. You pull them back
to let the night out, like a cat.
of a mink
escaped from a farm – an abattoir –
installed in her boudoir,
your cavernous-but-cosy – your
less – roof space.
Forgetful of sentence and reprieve
(who on earth would believe
her tale?) she dashes about the
above your head, your bad dreams in time
with her running and climb-
ing; a ball will find the back of a
thus a spider's home, all his worldly
he will straight away set to weav-
new – stronger – intruder-proof web (that
our invisible squatt-
er may or may not rush into).
lofty dungeon to offer? What grows
– what could? – in those shadows?
The small, frightened creature that you
one dark night –
eyes the only lights in the garden,
strange, intense (the marten
that you hear at work (or play)) – knows.
The Snowman for Kamil and Julia
SURNAME - SNOWMAN
GIVEN NAME - A
DATE OF BIRTH - WINTER
SEX - N/A
PLACE OF BIRTH - WINTER
CHILDREN - NONE
ISSUED IN - WARSAW
DATE OF ISSUE - 2001
COLOUR OF EYES - CHESTNUT BROWN
DISTINGUISHING MARKS - NOSE ASKEW
NEXT OF KIN - WIND AND RAIN
DATE OF EXPIRY - 2002