Among this trick acknowledgement of mechanical birds
with clocks keys and stops to check their slow grinding,
minder dog growls and the cat turns sleepily along a ledge,
flicking its lazy tail against stiff slivers of lemon rind,
that once sent lethargic ripples across a surface of gin.
This old curiosity shop is of infinite Dickensian depth,
where you never quite reach the old stuffed bear,
standing tall in a forest of fur,
sniffing the air through a mist of mothballs,
nonchalantly leaning against the wall.
This room has properties which darken all its colours,
making objects appear indeterminate without outline,
dipped in a cauldron of brown.
An old man wearing a quilted jacket,
frequently mistaken for a waxwork, blinks an eye.