Mary Cresswell
Spy Story
At three a.m. the moon threw back her head and screamed. The train shot into the longest tunnel, whereupon the lights failed. The cats on the roof peered down over the windows, whispering let us in let us in. Their tails brushed the tunnel roof, whisking like windscreen wipers to and fro to and fro. When the guard came down the aisle, he was holding a torch. There is a minor problem on the line, he purred reassuringly. Be grateful you caught the last train.This line has become a circle, and there will be no point. The moon screamed again as we came out of the mountain. Only in her light could we see the silhouettes riding above us, dark shapes slinking, dark minds thinking. No one spoke, and even I was wrapped up in thoughts of home.
Mary Cresswell is from Los Angeles and lives on New Zealand’s Kapiti Coast. Her newest book, Fish Stories, is a collection of ghazals and glosas, published by Canterbury University Press in 2015.
