Poem no.18: The Mouse

The spring day was cool and fresh with a luminous light drawn down from a mixture of cloud, sun and light rain.

Many puddles edged the road in glowing arcs, yet one small, silvered pool caught my attention and drew me back.

At the edge of the cloud-streaked water lay a tiny dead mouse. I could not see how it had died – there was no visible wound – but its sleek grey body curled peacefully around the edge of the puddle.

The light was strange that day; it dazzled, it reflected off damp metal, it brought all lying water to life.

The puddle was luminescent. It glowed.

And the tiny mouse – so perfectly placed – looked as if it was staring deeply into a portal to another world where all mice ran untrammelled and free and none died ignominiously at the side of a small damp country road.

© Anne McMaster 2016

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