Titus the Dog is selling tickets for the Poetry Bus this week, and the destination is the zoo. This Wise Old Bird is not on her list, and will be quite happy riding on the roof-rack . .
It was me he hunted,
wheeling over fields and trees,
to invade the backwaters of dreams,
invade the very eaves,
to invade the backwaters of dreams,
invade the very eaves,
trailing the screech
that plucked me, quaking,
from my sleep.
It was me he wanted.
He was no wise old friend.
I pulled the sheets of dread
about my ears. I probed
my room's four corners
for his white shape, aghast
at bonecrack talons
in my rafters, white wings draped,
lunar eyes fixed on my head,
steel beak agape. Would he impale
a mere child in his bed?
It was me he haunted.
The whole house lay asleep.
He knew my fears and I
his place. Could he not keep
to that bleak steeple where he blinked
among rusty bells, ropes, bones,
murmurs of the dead,
and let me keep
such terrors for my dreams?
I must not shriek.
I must not shriek.
