Poetry

Monday, 9 June 2025

Squirrel Lawn

 I saw the violence of a squirrel

When he fights for his last meal

But be He large or be He small

He’ll be cracking nut and all

The churlish oak that is his home

Reaches its twisted bark

As gloaming turns to dark

To Everest tree top crown

When the bat gangs come to town

 

The squirrel courting the dirty dozen

Happens to mention he is their cousin

They fling him long and taper and type

To the end of an oaken limb pipe

And there all fluting in their jail bird lungs

Commence to throw him and there he is flung

To see if this relative kind will revert to type

And swoop and swipe

But he slings and slouches and gripes

Into the leaves which wetly wipe

And leave him not the sugar glider

More the salt and pepper provider

 

And so he settles back to his nestles

And cracks more nuts above dreaming nettles

Then the bats fly off to greet the dawn

And all is quiet on squirrel lawn

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