The Mumling

What is that creature, is that sight
at night comes burrowing and shrill
under the window sill and ear
into the vault of memory?

The Mumling screeches, muffled
mumblings, ramblings, half-invented songs.
In its horns it keeps your thoughts,
emotions, all your unseen things.

Why does the garden from your childhood
have a gaping, starless well?
Why does the feeling of your mother’s
embrace weave a sickening spell?

The Mumling, lurking to and fro
possesses each incarnate will,
shivering, gathering memories,
under a single unmarked hill.

Awake, before the mumling enters,
shut the window, close the shutters
keep your memories, your selfhood
just a little, little longer.