01-31-2018, 09:56 PM
How secretly the mole scrapes by in sodden earth and root.
Each slug a wad of calories, a push a pull, a shovelled foot.
His blind unmeasured consequence marked by muddy mound
where proclamations of advance lay surfaced, scattered round.
No concept, sight or knowing plan drives fur and feet afar;
yet fanning out, with purpose clear ,
the shallow tunnels spread each year.
In lawn and pitch and garden beds,
under drives and through yew hedge,
into cold frames, greenhouse soil,
relentlessly the critters toil.
Up above, in sighted world, walks hound and Mole Man, gloved and grassed.
Below in scentless, senseless soil, the velvet digger, ‘til he’s passed,
is still and silent; lest one scrape should prick dog’s ears and give away
his hidden hold beneath the boot, so guile may let him live the day.
Down through the dark a stab of cane;
another, nearer. Blood and pain,
death’s portentous company,
is on him, but to wriggle free
is more than pink spades can achieve.
For sin in soil, there’s no reprieve.
Buried in his own dug grave , the bloodied spike still holds him fast.
Another mole will find him, soon, and skirt around to seek repast.
Who knows which mole produced this pile, this February mound.
Alike, they come and come again, erupting through the ground;
and shallow tunnels spread each year,
in lawn and pitch and garden beds,
under drives and through yew hedge,
into cold frames, greenhouse soil…
I hate them.
Tectak
2017
Each slug a wad of calories, a push a pull, a shovelled foot.
His blind unmeasured consequence marked by muddy mound
where proclamations of advance lay surfaced, scattered round.
No concept, sight or knowing plan drives fur and feet afar;
yet fanning out, with purpose clear ,
the shallow tunnels spread each year.
In lawn and pitch and garden beds,
under drives and through yew hedge,
into cold frames, greenhouse soil,
relentlessly the critters toil.
Up above, in sighted world, walks hound and Mole Man, gloved and grassed.
Below in scentless, senseless soil, the velvet digger, ‘til he’s passed,
is still and silent; lest one scrape should prick dog’s ears and give away
his hidden hold beneath the boot, so guile may let him live the day.
Down through the dark a stab of cane;
another, nearer. Blood and pain,
death’s portentous company,
is on him, but to wriggle free
is more than pink spades can achieve.
For sin in soil, there’s no reprieve.
Buried in his own dug grave , the bloodied spike still holds him fast.
Another mole will find him, soon, and skirt around to seek repast.
Who knows which mole produced this pile, this February mound.
Alike, they come and come again, erupting through the ground;
and shallow tunnels spread each year,
in lawn and pitch and garden beds,
under drives and through yew hedge,
into cold frames, greenhouse soil…
I hate them.
Tectak
2017