A still night. The isles
out-sigh. A nearly
full moon is in
the dark eye
of the hill mouse in our
compost bin, silently
ta da!—on top of tea
bags carrot tops tough ends of
leek and tattie peel
, all baroque and
garlanded with leopard
slugs. Unmeek:
it shows no fear—I
think because it has none—under
the moon that has put
a full stop after winter
and is tilting us toward
another season, not
spring. I flick
the headtorch up—jumping
jacks spang off the
illuminated
dike—the round,
cratered compost falls
into eclipse. Fecund dial,
overcrawled by Cinderella the
mouse, advancing on
the sweet pepper core and
towing a round caboose of
mouse-arse. She’s
emptied every little
keg of the corncob, a hundred
boozy, mouse-sized
shots—meanwhile, in the
house, we’re down to the dregs of
everything from which I
will cook a sort of
risotto: the last of the
smoked haddock—
iridescent flakes like mother-
of-pearl—you just off your last
night shift—the baby still
fighting sleep—stock-fat
sultanas sticking to the
pan and a spray of leaves
from overwintered
coriander. A glass of
wine between two. Moonlight
on the sea. The tide
turning. Our very great fortune
landing in our laps. And the
hill mouse ducking just
out of sight—
as I pour largesse upon
largesse—