There was fear in the yard and the wood-mouse hid,
under sticks and logs, as he always did.
Beyond was an alley of glittering cats,
a street full of feet, wearing mouse-catcher hats.
A city of gutters, with rats running deep.
Beyond that, the forest, where owls never sleep.
He opened one eye. Then he lifted his head….
there was nothing except his great feeling of dread.
But light years away, as if it had known
he would need it one day when he felt so alone,
The Plough was still shining. It tilted the sky.
It furrowed the darkness as time passed it by.
It silently stretched from the reaches of space,
the treading of ancients, a working of grace.
He wondered and waited. He waited and thought.
A step to adventure, a breath towards caught.
Beyond all his fears, it burned steady and bright.
Half out of the wood pile, he breathed in the night.