A poem about a mischievous Cornish piskie



An imp is meddling with my brain,
getting inside the Cornish rain,
rattling the door with might and main,
driving me mad all over again.

It’s with me when the light creeps in.
It hides inside the laundry bin
and peeks at me with a wicked grin.
Whatever I do the imp will win.

It disobeys the rules and regs,
cocking a snook at all the meds
and gets inside my arms and legs
making them jitter like loose tent-pegs.

It scuttles and frisks in our back yard,
pushes the gate and the drain-pipes hard,
batters my ears when I’m off my guard:
there’s nothing the imp’s not maimed and marred.

It’s with me when I try to sleep.
It takes its spade and it digs in deep.
Seeds are a thing the imp holds cheap;
it sows the mischief that I reap.

Whatever I’ve done, whatever I’ve tried
all my attempts have fallen wide.
Oh pesky imp, think I’ll run and hide
with the docile cows on the wet hill-side.