Was it the faceless phantom calls
that echo through the dark?
Or the shadow-creeping,
’tween-the-fence peeping
nightly wanders?
The lonely loops through town and park:
front garden, back alley,
moonlit wood, sleeping valley
on a furtive quest for flesh.
Was it the silent stalk of padded feet,
as they crossed the quiet, lamplit street,
or the rust-furred brush, that slipped with ease
through privet bush,
where, in the branches,
taking chances, you watched, you stared.
But I see no cunning craftsman there,
held within that amber glare. No drifting grifter,
dirty dog, no wily wanderer,
but hope, and fear — burning things,
and all those flickering human whims
and maybe I’m just like the others,
seeing things in those amber eyes
of the side-street prowler,
midnight yowler,
russet growler,
marauder of the night.