Her parents are rowing.

Alice hides in a door way
of the semi-dark passage,
pressing her back against
the door's old wood.

His baritone bark,
her mother's soprano screech,
words reaching beyond
walls hold and depth.

She closes her eyes
against the dimness
and half light,
to hear more or better.

She has evaded
the nanny's search,
ignored the siren's voice,
had hidden and smiled.

The row goes on,
voices higher,
her ears catch at sounds
that float her way.

Far off,
she hears the nanny's voice
grow more desperate
in the morning search.

She misses
her mother's touch and hold,
misses the bedtime
reads and kisses,
instead,
the nanny bids her goodnight
and shuts out the light
with neither kiss or hold
or any caress
as her mother gave.

Silence greets her ears;
the row has ceased.  

The semi-dark
embraces her unkindly,
her closed eyes bring
no comfort to her mind.

A bang and slam,
the row restarts,
Alice opens her eyes
to the semi-dark,
the vibrating voice
of her father's bark.

A slither of light appears
from the passageway beyond,
one walks slow
along the carpet's length,
footsteps soft
against the rowing sounds.

The thin maid appears,
stands gawking,
hands red and thin
by her narrow sides.

What you doing here?
Alice shrugs.
Come, the maid says,
this is no place
for tender ears to wait.

Alice hesitates,
then, taking
the proffered hand
walks along the semi-dark,
the voices
like the drowned
upon the sea,
then off along
the lower regions of the house,
where sounds don't reach
so wild, for one such as she,
a little child.