There are mouse bits
splayed across the sunroom
stuck to my favourite throw rug
and great globs of glue
The trap my husband set
to catch the recent invasion
apparently lured the hunter
for she, stiff legged and
face matted, is skulking
elsewhere
I stepped on a gluey bit
eyes not yet open
before noting
the disarray
Hard to concentrate
when a tail detached
from a thigh (foot intact)
lie stuck to one’s rug
and entrails drip down
the freshly painted
off-white wall.
They always take the back roads,
virginal snow-covered lanes
lined with trees: pastoral views
Unmarked routes, out of sight,
use the innocence of landscape
to blot out their dark intentions
Pristine picture perfect scenes
lull the unsuspecting; breath-
taking vistas; secret keepers
The roads still exist in my dreams
the trees like soldiers, stiff and stark
stripped of their magical allure, now
guard the memories, painted red
with the loss of purity; I had not
guessed the danger of woods
Child mind incapable of conceiving
what wolves roamed in nature
the blood of their victims crimson
stains forever etched in silhouette
the shrillness of their screams
now silent echoes in the night.
(Image: www.flickr.com)
One Woman's Quest 