Worry
When the sun shines,
there’s a green-faced troll sitting on a rock.
He scowls and growls and glares at me.
Skin prickles
and I know he’s looking and reaching…
twisted fingers for me.
Sticky orange eyes, like see-through scabs,
promise pain and misery.
So, I am surprised that when I do talk to my troll,
I quickly get used to his smell
and find his questions are engaging.
Distracting even.
That’s when I realise he’s done it again.
I didn’t notice when the clouds rolled in
and now everything has been ruined by the rain.
Troll laughter like scraped iron.
