Something’s up,
Not right at all.
The days are bleeding full of dreams
And queer juxtapositions.

Witness the rush-hour traffic stalled.
A giant hen, intransigent,
Blocks the way.

Observe: the children are late home from school.
They have all been caught,
Splay-limbed and flailing,
In a witch’s beard.
Elsewhere the adults are snared.
They have fallen by the wayside,
Distracted by the tophatted charlatan
With his cormorant.
The bird with the sinuous neck does tricks for treats.
It will eat from your hand, and once seen
Will not stand to be deserted.
Thus many adults are gone.

Better not try the doors-
Those that haven’t been bricked up
Now lead to the land of ghosts.
The windows too are treacherous;
The glass deceiving with empty moonscapes
Or tortuous, distorted reflections.
Houses in general are safer avoided:
Walls that chuckle, floorboards that writhe,
And eerie stretching corridors
Are all bad portents.

These are strange portents indeed.
Mysterious owls sit high on the lampposts
And seem to be influencing events. Who knows?
We will not find an answer tonight.
I suggest we find a place to sleep,
And try to dream of ticking clocks,
Of calm meadows and unflappable newsreaders.