It is hard to know what is innocent, and what is ominous. The black cat with an eye no bigger than a penny. A tap left running for days on end. There is no such thing as ethical leather. A woman of the church laughs behind her broom secretly, as she spies the dog with three legs only. His chequered coat is so very quaint, as he hobbles like a lamb shank. And days pass by that toy shop window, With wooden tracks and paper dolls to excite the child. I see bin lids rattle by the back door, as the toy-train painter stumbles sheepishly. One loaf in his pocket. Until the day he tips turpentine instead of milk, into his morning coffee. The glacé cherries the girl eats straight from the jar; unaware of her mother returning home. Laughing at her hands In nothing but a coat. She rolls marzipan on a plastic table. The playing cards I burned in my room. But was too afraid to show anyone.