The Man at the Bottom of the Garden
came visiting last night. He sneaked through
the gap and flitted over the border,
where sleep had composed itself with
a hum of settled contentment. At daybreak,
 
the Owner opened a lid and surveyed
the stealthy handiwork. Two discreet,
bonded figures lay exposed, side by side,
their still, slumbered bodies unearthed
in the twilight of their scuttling.
 
But the Owner indeed agreed that
the Man at the Bottom of the Garden
had scattered his seed in just the right place.
His audacious acts often took breath away,
much to the surprise of the sleepwalker.
 
Silent pillow talk had meant he had crept
across the threshold and draped himself
- like a fallen blind - over the windows
of night’s dream, shutting out the day’s glare.
And light had faded from the Owner’s eyes.
 
But the evidence couldn’t quite be buried.
The Owner knew where things ranked, so she brewed
her alchemy beyond unsuspecting eyes.
The undeterred intruder hid beyond
beams moonlighting in the tread of night.
 
The Man at the Bottom of the Garden
had stolen back into bed again.
His handiwork hadn’t disturbed a soul.