There is a Lord of the universe
And a Lord of this quiet hour
And I am told they are one.
How can I, a mouse,
Small to hold in the palm,
a chestnut warmed in embers,
Understand the stars?
I stand at the mountain, my feet
Cold on the crust of snow,
My forepaws held to my chest
Where a hundred times a minute
Swings open and shut
My pip-sized heart.
I'll not see two of these winters
With their hours of frozen dark
Calling me out of the mousehole.
I hunt the air with my whiskers
Blind as searchlights, sweeping,
Feeling for space and the stars.
And a Lord of this quiet hour
And I am told they are one.
How can I, a mouse,
Small to hold in the palm,
a chestnut warmed in embers,
Understand the stars?
I stand at the mountain, my feet
Cold on the crust of snow,
My forepaws held to my chest
Where a hundred times a minute
Swings open and shut
My pip-sized heart.
I'll not see two of these winters
With their hours of frozen dark
Calling me out of the mousehole.
I hunt the air with my whiskers
Blind as searchlights, sweeping,
Feeling for space and the stars.
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Susan Irvine teaches a studio project on using smell as material at the Royal College of Art in London. She also lives in Scotland when she can. She is the author of a novel, Muse, and a collection of short stories, Corpus, both published by Quercus.
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