Apologies to those who’ve seen this before, but I couldn’t write anything more appropriate than this one, written in 2009.
Up through a heap of sugared beech leaves,
I poke my nose, whiffle the air.
No. It’s not yet time.
I wake to hungry rumbling
but no scent of juicy mollusc greets me
and I cannot stand the cold.
Back to sleep until Spring.
It’s the end of a perfect dream
of moistened, creeping worms,
and willing females.
I snuffle again and honeyed air
meets my cautious nose.
Hmm, I think. That’s better.
Ah yes, the time has come
to leave my winter bed of fleas,
to feast and make love,