Carole Humphreys

Rat-tat-tat

We are in the coal shed.
The door, one inch ajar, grants
a slit of light, a streak
of striped lawn and dog-roses.

Beneath strewn petals,
Father's rampant gerbils
fornicate. The undergrowth
is alive. Their gnawed route to freedom

took them from the prison
within his workshop. Wood shavings,
the film of sawdust fail to reveal
the patter of fleet-footed

rodents. The council
will condemn us, shortly
after our neighbours. And now
we hide. Our eyes grow accustomed

to darkness. My sister holds me
as the man from two doors down drops by,
he comes when Mum
is not at home. I consider

how the flowers
of the berberis make
a bright bouquet
for the most courtly
of desert rats.