Stranger
This is the cry that hollows the walls,
that shrinks like evening Primrose
clicking on window frames, rapping
out the ticks of post-nocturnal gloom,
the accepted hour of life. It is afraid
its words are meaningless, rattling
the bannisters
umbral enunciation
that swam, amphibious and strange
in its meticulous waddle to land,
glassy eyes suspended, the black
hearts of them quivering frogspawn.
This is the queer, ribbitting chalice
webbed in the throat, the blank cry
that shakes in its paperloose skin.
Daniel Pearson is originally from Sunderland and studied English Literature at Lancaster University. After spending several years living in Canada, New Zealand, and Australia he now lives in Cardiff.