The Burglar

Distracted for a moment, my back turned, he seizes his opportunity.
Light fingered, quietly, eagerly, searching.
Rifling, magpie-like, looking for that exquisite piece
To treasure and hoard, clasped tightly in his grubby hands,
Safe, hidden from my view until


Re-entering the fray, mind poised, I spot him.
Panic wells up, vomit-like. Those are my things....
The innards of my bag laid bare, pulled roughly,
Maltreated and carelessly strewn, for all to see.
How did he find this? Where did that come from?
I want to push it all back, to hide
Those things which shouldn't be seen
And to restore some dignity to the disordered,
Smooth over it, pretend all is calm.


But he has taken something. I see it now 
And rage explodes, shattering through the disarray.
Give me back what is mine! Now!
The scream surprises him. A flicker of doubt crosses his face
And then he smiles. "No!," he taunts.
He thinks I'm playing. My heart fails: this is no game.
Gulping down pride, I change tact. Please?
"NO!" he shouts. I have riled him now.


Disheartened, upset, weakly, I walk away
To breathe. Slowly, deliberately,
I tidy and re-pack my possessions, 
Sighing over each as if they too had shattered.
I feel him watching, waiting.
And then suddenly, a small hand touches mine.
"Mum?"


He gazes up at me, eyes wide and pure,
And offers up the borrowed object.
Relief and regret at once quench the fire within
And I hug him: Thank you darling
And off he goes, my heart, my creation, my exposé,
Back to his innocence and his fearless investigations,
Leaving me to ponder my world,
My inner sanctity.