The Landlady

Limes, lemons, peaches and pickles
Stand on the shelves of my skinflint landlady’s larder
Rounded, corpulent. There is meat on those bones
But a granite heart beats within
Cold as the iced-over mill pond

And in my cobwebbed attic room
Hunger pursues me by night and by day
Menacing, predatory, preparing to pounce
And I gaze out at the slate-grey rooftops
I will not dine tonight

I hear the dinner guests gathering, gossiping,
I hear the crunch of their boots on gravel
And the stench of hotpot floats up the stairs
I hear her carry the pot to the table
Heavy footed.

They sit down to eat. And minute by minute
I waste away. Starvation is a slow
And agonising process. A great colossus
Pressing me to the ground
As I walk alone.

'She is a peculiar girl!'
Their voices rising, rising
And I will not sit at her table
I will not partake of her feast
Instead I sleep

And sleep and sleep...…