Classic Poem

The cricket that sang these last few evenings
near the potted benjamin on the verandah
sang yesterday — rather listlessly —
from the lumber room at the back.
What made it move there?
Was it the gradual deepening of autumn gloom?
Did it crawl through the living-room,
or did it fly?
I imagine it in the daytime, no one here,
crossing the open verandah and walking slowly
through the living room.
First it would have hesitated in front of the TV,
the machine that for a while every evening
throws an eerie glow across all living things
and furniture within the house.
Perhaps it flew up and rubbed its sensitive feelers
against the shiny face of the Braun tube.
Ah, the eye has dimmed!
Maybe it missed its hold and fell headlong
to the floor
where it took a cricket sleep.
Afterwards, it must have crawled sluggishly into the kitchen,
licked the spot on the floor where the spilled tea had dried,
looked back, shook its head a few times,
crossed the threshold and disappeared into the lumber room,
the most remote space in the house.
Today it does not sing.