An Imp

An Imp

Not the tin shed in the empty section
nor the immediate white cat with the patch

on its side like a hole,
but the imp in my eye his eye spat.

Imagination closed on it
quick as a fist, a black spar.

It queers my inner sight.
It cannot be dissolved by time.


‘An Imp’ © Cilla McQueen 2005, used by permission of the author and the publishers. Recording from a private recording: Cilla McQueen reads from Fire-Penny and Soundings (2011).

Sponsor this poem

Would you like to sponsor this poem? Find out how here.

Recordings

Books by Cilla McQueen