Imagination Poem by Mary Champion

scratching softly on her bedroom window -
feigning gentleness.

She tried to reassure herself with reason…
it was only the twigs of the tree outside
stirred by the breeze -
the breeze of a windless night.

It had pursued her for a decade now,
since, aged eight or so
and, as ever, deprived of suitable reading matter,
she had dipped into Picture Post
(or some other magazine
belonging to her parents.)

At that age
the line between fact and fiction was still blurred -
she had only recently given up believing
in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy,
so vampires, whatever they might be,
were all too credible.

Even so, by now, she had long
abandoned any credence for magic and superstition -
in daylight at least.
But alone in her room
listening to the rustling and scraping outside
her confidence wavered.

Eventually, she fell asleep
and awoke, next day, her scepticism restored.

Thus it continued night after night,
week after week.
Slowly her self-reassurance
became more reassuring
until that morning when she looked in the mirror
as she adjusted her recalcitrant hair.
Turning her head slightly
to check her coiffeur,
she saw them -
two puncture marks on her neck.

Her blood froze!