Some days words sit up on sheds
licking their fur. They look down
disdainfully, refuse to be tempted
onto the page.
Words stake out their territories,
go wandering off
in search of some elusive scent.
They sulk and disappear
for days on end, returning
well-fed by another hand to occupy
the best armchair in the house.
Words spit and scratch when cornered.
They yowl all night, give birth
secretly in the shoe cupboard.
Yet on good days the slightest sound
of spoon on tin will bring them in.
Then words will curl tails around your legs,
doze on sunny windowsills,
end the day contented on your lap,
purring as if they had never been away.