John Whitworth

The soul, a poem, John Whitworth

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The soul is like a little mouse.

He hides inside the body’s house

With anxious eyes and twitchy nose

As in and out he comes and goes,

A friendly, inoffensive ghost

Who lives on tea and buttered toast.

He is so delicate and small

Perhaps he is not there at all;

Long-headed chaps who ought to know

Assure us it cannot be so.

But sometimes, as I lie in bed,

I think I hear inside my head

His soft ethereal song whose words

Are in some language of the birds,

An air-borne poetry and prose

Whose liquid grammar no one knows.

So we go on, my soul and I,

Until, the day I have to die,

He packs his bags, puts on his hat

And leaves for ever. Just like that.