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,
For the penultimate day of #30dayswild I wanted something a bit special – for the rest of the month, the poems have been a bit rushed and instant, so today’s poem is an old one of which I am rather fond.