What Is it?

It’s the pipes, creaking

It’s the floorboard, shifting

It’s the wind, sighing

It is not the sound of bone scraping off bone

It is not the sound of ghostly footsteps

It is not the sound of claws a-tapping on my door

It’s a radio left on

It’s a cat howling

It’s a mouse in the attic

It is not the low murmur of ghostly voices

It is not the sound of souls in torment

It is not someone in the attic, spying through a hole

It’s the shadow on the wall

It’s my dressing gown on the door

It’s a piles of clothes

It is not a figure waiting, with outstretch arms

It is not a creature perched high on the wall

It is not creeping towards me across the floor

I hope.

Sara Curran 2006

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