In the pocket of the night
Furtive, shy of the moon's bright face
We slide in tree shadow
Along fences, along walls,
Avoiding that pox riven gaze
lighting trees,houses, gardens
like a searchlight.
This is a time for mice and mushrooms
The softest footfall, scampering over
needles, under creaking pines.
Beware the gleaming eyes of ferrets,
owls and lollock's, making mischief
beneath the sighing branches.
Now is the time for whispers
And collusions, signs and confusions.
The glaring certainty of daylight is dissolved
It's leaden tread of precision
muffled Into foggy memory,
leaving only a quiet
As deep and still and sublime as if
the humans have finally learned
We have danced softly on your graves
We have defecated on your cars
Pissed on your fences, teased your dogs.
We have despised you as you despised us.
And you never cared,
Or even noticed.
You pretend to be still
In your distant gleaming houses
Your cities, factories of noise no longer
But are you listening really?
Or is the noise still in your heads