The Shadow-Man

The Shadow-Man lives in his bedroom;
Waiting behind the door or beside the wardrobe
Where there's a gap as black as sin against the wall.
Shadow-Man waits in silence for the boy to arrive
And the parents to leave.  Only then will he stir.
A tall, looming mass of writhing, living darkness
He glides across the room to the bed
Watching the boy's restless sleep.  He doesn't get seen.
The boy never knows he is there.
He stays all night above the bed, watching, waiting,
Until dawn's icy fingers probe into the room
Driving him back into corners and crannies.
Some nights, when the boy is sad and angry
Because they discovered his new path home,
The Shadow-Man must wait longer than usual.
And when he can finally come out, he picks up the pillow
And squeezes it, twists it, wrings it right round,
So that the angry yells and burning tears stream out
To be hidden under his long black coat.
On those nights he stands with his hand on the boy's forehead,
Smoothing his frown and his troubled dreams soothed.
This is the Shadow-Man.  He doesn't get seen.