Morning time in the life of a Belfast child,
Dark bodies entrapped. Their tails swing wild.
Laughing with glee, Father holds trap aloft.
"Wee rascals, you're done for now," he scoffs.
Here now a phobia at point of inception,
Lifelong terror finds its conception
Chasing begins all over the house,
Mattering not whether several or only one mouse.
Up and down and roundabout,
Hear that child scream and shout,
Breath giving out, changing to a wheeze,
Lungs and chest so tightly squeezed.
A lifetime has passed, the fear remains,
Isn't it peculiar what the psyche retains?
Maiming was not the game, Dad would claim,
Yet was creating a phobia really his aim?