Anthony Thwaite

The space between

Tonight I heard again the rat in the roof,

Fidgeting stuff about with a dry scuff,

Pausing in silence, then scratching away

Above my head, above the ceiling’s thin

Skin that separates his life from mine.

So shall I let him be, roaming so narrowly

In a few finger-widths of carpentry?

The evening passes by. I sit and write

And hear him skittering here and there in flight

From nothing.

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