When Clapham Rick stayed with us for a week
we concealed our little silver knick-knacks,
those which might be pocketed unnoticed
till cleaning later when a lack of dust
would cough their absence from the mantelpiece.
We felt rotten – as if we’d breached his trust.
He said he’d dumped the junk and kicked the horse,
was clean as snow – but for the booze, of course.
He said our farmhouse with its bird-pulled thatch
made him feel uncomfortable, spooked by bats
outside the window, the only night sound
the scrabble of house mice. He couldn’t rest
without a traffic lullaby to drown
the darkness out. It was probably best
he didn’t come to stay in January –
when vixens yelp like beaten babies.
