Shadow Curtain


In the dark corridor

of the house I am haunting

(it towers on flimsy foundations

is all duck egg cornices

and balestrades)

hangs a dark curtain.

When I brush it aside

(it rustles like breath in whisker hairs

and is as slender)

something slides further into the shadows.

I am not at pains to know what

this retreating figure

(because it was that – solid, if on wheels,

led perhaps,  a stiffened toy

pulled by something darker.) is.

I let the fabric drop

and ripple off  into the light

but now there is a new thing

caught there in the crux of my diaphragm.

I shoulder off fear and attend to new

footsteps in the dusty debris.


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