Nothing was stolen,
Nothing misplaced,
Within the house itself;
If it weren’t for the flower pots
Lying upturned in the garden,
And the fresh imprints
Of too big boots,
The lady of the house
Wouldn’t feel shaken,
But as it stands, she does.

“Nothing was stolen”,
“Nothing misplaced”,
They whisper under their breath
While talking to each other,
Or louder still, when offering her
Their sage reassurances.

She lies awake at night,
Not knowing who it was,
Nor even if they’d stepped in,
Through the open window,
And watched her as she slept.

Nothing was stolen,
Nothing misplaced,
On the face of it –
The dark circles under her eyes,
And the jitter in her being,
As she gathers herself,
To continue existing,
Speak louder than the footprints
Left in her garden –
They carry the burden
Of the footsteps that mayn’t
Have left behind
The imprint of a crime.