The silverfish are here, despite the lack of damp and mould.
The shower room is dark, though – and they like the dark, I’m told.
They certainly despise the light. Each time I turn it on,
there’s circling, scuttling, slinking off to somewhere… their salon?
Perhaps this is their safe space, underneath the skirting boards,
within the wicker bin as well, why not; there could be hoards
of tempting treats, a smorgasbord of plasters, skin and hair.
I read they’re fond of books. Maybe they’d also take my chair…
It might be sensible, I think, to try to see them out,
before they get too settled. I don't wish to stamp and shout;
some sweeping? But I’d miss their moves, that quite endearing way
they scamper to their salon – well, they needn’t leave today.
Felicity Teague
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Felicity Teague would like to hear them
