ALICE AND THE ROW.

ALICE HEARS HER PARENTS ROWING AND HIDES TO HEAR THE REASONS WHY.

Her parents are rowing.

Alice hides in a door way

of the semi-dark passage,

pressing her back against

the door's old wood.

His baritone bark,

her mother's soprano screech,

words reaching beyond

walls hold and depth.

She closes her eyes

against the dimness

and half light,

to hear more or better.

She has evaded

the nanny's search,

ignored the siren's voice,

had hidden and smiled.

The row goes on,

voices higher,

her ears catch at sounds

that float her way.

Far off,

she hears the nanny's voice

grow more desperate

in the morning search.

She misses

her mother's touch and hold,

misses the bedtime

reads and kisses,

instead,

the nanny bids her goodnight

and shuts out the light

with neither kiss or hold

or any caress

as her mother gave.

Silence greets her ears;

the row has ceased.

The semi-dark

embraces her unkindly,

her closed eyes bring

no comfort to her mind.

A bang and slam,

the row restarts,

Alice opens her eyes

to the semi-dark,

the vibrating voice

of her father's bark.

A slither of light appears

from the passageway beyond,

one walks slow

along the carpet's length,

footsteps soft

against the rowing sounds.

The thin maid appears,

stands gawking,

hands red and thin

by her narrow sides.

What you doing here?

Alice shrugs.

Come, the maid says,

this is no place

for tender ears to wait.

Alice hesitates,

then, taking

the proffered hand

walks along the semi-dark,

the voices

like the drowned

upon the sea,

then off along

the lower regions of the house,

where sounds don't reach

so wild, for one such as she,

a little child.