Miss Havisham’s House

She sleeps in a cupboard
upright and awkward
talks to the planter,
the elephant says –

drinks tea
from a see through saucer,
shoe box of sparrows,
pillar box fez.

Ms Rochester visits
on Tuesdays and Thursdays
to play all the records
and lie on the bed,

in the evenings she marks
the passage of hours
by counting the bones
in a crocodile’s head.

She writes long letters
on Victorian ledgers
to the great white bear
and the purple grouse,

a rail of veils,
brilliant as washing
pushes off
like a first dance.

Once she spots him
moving by the boxes,
radios up
to the moon in the loft.

She gazes, then squints
through a horn-rimmed
magnifier.

By time they arrive,
he’s always gone.