The Child Catcher's Out Again

I will not step outside again.

Not now. Not now the days are closed

and paths are damp grey rivers leading

to a lesser world. The sky a low lid

over every ant-like step. A press on us.

This time of year the eyes are out.

The watchers watch away.

Their gossip comes in frozen breath,

makes lines of heat, makes mouth-to-mouth,

resuscitating wintered minds.

My hooded head is down, and will be down

until the eyes are turned, mouths sewn closed.

I keep my needles rusty, just like so,

in case the child-catcher’s out again.

Her smile is raw.

(They’re always hers, those crafty types.)

They care you see. They see.

Their eyes are hawks, talons out.

They live on specks.

Swoop. Eyes forward, down,

wherever searchlights like to fall.

They look for dirt, loud gulls they are,

their arms umbrellas, shields,

aching arcs to capture wind. To lift.

Support. To love with stoned-out eyes.

The loud-voiced ones they are,

the social animals. They will expunge

the warped outsiders. Take their children in.

The child-catcher’s out again.

Her mind is hived, her body split through

Sophie, twenty, dedicated mum-of-two

(highlights done by Charlie, hun,

nails polished, trousers painted to her bum);

there’s womb-dry Elsa, mind a slate

(she walks her dog there every day.

She sees these things. Her spaniel sniffs.

She talks and watches out for freaks);

Tracey, dripping into middle age,

her children halfway to hairdressing jobs,

to going down the pub, to that bright revolving world

where she becomes her mum and he his dad,

and aren’t we proud of nothing gained at all?

(Who can help but talk? Those poor things.

Their hands are cold. Something should be done.)

No more walking down those paths.

Too many tripping hazards there.

They make macramé of their minds,

their laser eyes, their out-reached hands.

This is their net. No jungle telegraph for them,

not those foreign sorts.

Just string. Two cans with string attached,

(mum showed them how. Those days were best)

their voices slipping down.

Who cares how the physics works?

We don’t do books. Books r 4 dirty minds.

Their for the likes of you.

Let us take your kid’s in hand. Learn them

lines and laws and how we fit,

a comfy place to put yourself,

slot in, be hand-in-hand.

Xmas deccie’s up already, all the presents bought.

We don’t do a real tree. Can’t stand them needles.

Our princess’ll love what Santa brought.

It’s pink, you see. That’ll put her in her place.

She’ll grow up good and proper now.

The child-catcher’s out again.

She’s always out. Her net is wide.

Her kids’ll be all right. They’re watched.

Their surfaces are dettoled down,

their minds washed every night.

I won’t step outside again. Not now.

The sharks are open-mouthed.