My grandmothers warned me
never to leave my window open at night.
Now my room is shape-shifted by creatures,
the half-light filled with their secrets.
Their words become drunk incantations
to bulrushes and reed beds.
Come morning, they vanish so fast,
they leave toothed shadows on the wall.
I should learn the art of stilt-walking
to step over the menace lurking in their fog.
But I am snug, wintered down like an eel
in the moment before it tries to flee the fyke.
I close the shutters to prevent their whispers
unfurling over the sleeping village
like a fen on a November night.