Who knows what my shadow does while I sleep?
Does he rest, too?
Or does he caper on the chamber wall, performing cartwheels and somersaults?
Does he take a moonlight shower?
Does he then preen himself a little, gazing at his reflection in the windowpane?
And when the witching hour comes, does he bid my sleeping self farewell?
Does he creep under the door or jump through the open window?
Does he wander through the streets, admiring the shadows of the trees and flowers?
And what if he stumbles upon a florist’s shop?
Does he sneak in and steal the shadow of a rose?
And where does he go then?
To the café?
Or to the park?
Or by the waterside?
What is that shadow which awaits him on the bridge?
Is it yours?
Image copyright Christine Till @ CT-Graphics