By Oscar O’Neill-Pugh

The rays shrink.

The sun creeps back.


The night, it clings to us all.

Its long digits holding still our ears,

It’s icy breath caressing our skin.

Whatever you do,

Don’t resist.

Whatever you do,

Don’t interrupt it.

Don’t light it up.

Never startle it.

With outstretched fingers,

It goes a tippa tappa on the windows.

Tippa tappa,

Tippa tappa,

Tippa tappa.


With an overstretched grin

And popping out peepers,

It goes a scratcha scratch on the windows.

Scratcha scratch,

Scratcha scratch,

Scratcha scratch.


Hunched, crouched low,

Making its way carefully through the window.

It only makes a little clicka click.

Clicka click,

Clicka click,

Clicka click.


You can burn and light up the night,

Waving fire at the darkness,

All you please.

But it always finds its way in,

Always peering in,

It’s in.


I’m a good boy,

I never interrupt the night.

I swallow, I gulp silently

And let the umbra take me.

I let it take me,

I’m slipping in,

I can’t be found.


And I can hear my mother wailing.

I can hear my mother wailing,

I hear my mother wailing,

I hear my mother.

I hear.

Oh poor mother.


Image by Aimee Vogelsang.