A small mass of shadow
on the attic wall, it
was simply there one evening.
Incapable of arriving,
of scurrying shyly
from its lair under the sofa,
it moored itself
in the berth of my mind
like the Pacific.
The presence startled me.
Some prodigal fear
of those long legs, bunching
at my pillow's edge,
sent me reeling from the walls.
I lay on the floor
admiring its symmetry -
fluent, rarefied,
like a vintage umbrella –
then socked it with a shoe.
But it survived.
Shrank to a dark
blotch in the ceiling corner,
and had vanished.
The hole it reverted to
seemed brazen, obtuse:
not at all like it.
Those shrill feet peppered
my imagination
till I believed I existed –
maker of shadows
shimmering and spiralling down
my own dark hole.