TO SMELL A RAT

Sometimes poems have no other function than to tell a story. This one is a true story from a time we lived in a house on the edge of the village where mice, snakes and rats would find a way into the cellar and up the stairs. I was advised to rub garlic cloves on the stone steps to stop the snakes climbing but it had no effect on the mice or on at least one occasion, a rat. After 20 years I can still both shudder and smile at the memory of the rat in the kitchen.

TO SMELL A RAT

I once shared my kitchen with a rat,

sniffed its musty presence, hunted

it down with a quivering nose,

scouring shelves, bleaching drains,

still the fusty stench remained.

Till the day I traced it, raised the cooker lid

and faced it, nestled in orange fluff,

hairless worm tail coiled 

round dirty dank fur, unblinking

coal eyes stared at me.

Resourceful this rat, wrapped in

insulation whilst I stood stirring sauces,

absently boiling and burning,

unaware of twitchy whiskers

awaiting return to its warm bed.

I slammed down the treacherous hob,

hand to mouth in hollywood horror.

Skin crawling, hair prickling,

heart racing, I counted the hours

we’d lived so close, rat and me.

Three hefty men heaved the

rusted metal hunk out to the street,

where we tipped it and stripped it

and bashed it with brooms till the

rat saw sense and leaped free.

It streaked straight down the hill,

chased by ancient neighbour on

doddery stick legs, broom aloft with

murderous intent, determined the

rat would not taunt another kitchen.

I watched it escape, thought it was

gone as the story lived on, true tall tale

told with mixed mirth and shame.

But the rat lingered.

It’s with me still.

It’s in my dreams where it sneaks

up the bedclothes, foul fur and

flailing tail, almost reaching

my neck with fetid teeth till

my night screams fade it away.

It’s with me on hot mornings

when bare feet welcome the 
coolness of tiles, scanning rooms

for sudden movements, the flash

of pink tail or scurried scraping of feet.

It’s with me in the half light,

cradling tea, recalling with a shiver

how that impudent rat

pattered through my house

and disturbed my peace.


© 2017 Jacqueline Claire Knight.  All rights reserved.