We found a mole one spring evening,
Lying dead by his trampled hill,
His body folded like an empty velvet purse.
His blind little eyes had never blinked
Into the sunlit morning,
His sharp puppet claws had never touched
The grass till then.
Living below ground it seemed correct
To leave him on a branch.

[Published in Ironstone 1 (2005)]


mole — 1 Comment

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