There was a noise in the street that could not be ignored
Like the sour-pitched whine of a wounded creature.
I went outside, barefoot, ascending the hill,
And soon I saw, high up on the pavement
Two hooded figures looking at me
Dressed in black and not moving their legs
Yet floating down, down, down towards me
Smoothly and silently in the midnight mist.
I forgot about the noise and turned sharp,
The tarmac cutting into my soles as I ambled back
Faster and faster,
Thinking: “Is that sound their unmoving feet?
Or is it my trouser legs rubbing together?”
What foolish thoughts I had in terror! What did it matter?
Not looking behind, I could feel them at my heels,
Bringing with them a deeper cold, a fatal freeze.
My vision blurred, my breathing palsied,
But I got through the backdoor and slammed it shut.
Racing to the fire, I warmed myself against death
Before closing the curtains against the night
Unlit by a moon shrouded by clouds,
Not wanting to dare to check on their descent.
I then got down on my knees and rubbed my hands,
Trying to capture heat from the flames.
It was another eight hours before dawn,
And I had lost all the will to sleep.
