In shadowed corners of my mind, a hob takes his place,
Tinkering and toiling in his hidden secret space.
Pipe smoke curls, writhing ghosts fill the gloom,
Bare feet tapping as he rocks like a loon.
Flickering light dances, dripping waxy candlelight,
He’s scheming and he’s plotting as he whispers to his loom.
His eyes smiling, his wee knives sharp—
Night child, what dreams will you start?