Jumper on the bed. A dead weight.
It's been following me
From house move to drawer move.
A poem's following me too.
It wants me to confess to it.
But I won't. It will try and trick me,
Catch me when I'm not looking.
Or deliberately disguise itself
In a smile of love that hovers
And then vanishes. Or in the soft
Honey tones of a heather-clad hillside.
Or this jumper. Lying here.