Not the tin shed in the empty section
nor the immediate white cat with the patch
on its side like a hole,
but the imp in my eye his eye spat.
Imagination closed on it
quick as a fist, a black spar.
It queers my inner sight.
It cannot be dissolved by time.
?An Imp? ? Cilla McQueen 2005, used by permission of the author and the publishers.Recording from a private recording: Cilla McQueen reads from Fire-Penny and Soundings (2011).