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Sitting in the garden on a late September afternoon

The diluted sun paints shadows on my skin.

Its wrinkled layering becomes a moon landing

For flies; exploring the craters of brave new worlds.

They tickle me with their spidery feet.


A grey squirrel hangs upside down to eat

From a bird feeder, like a circus act

On a high wire with no safety net. He swings

And flicks his chatty tail at angry birds, singing

For their supper before the night descends.

While mumbling bees stumble in and out

Of crumbling blackberry bushes.

Drinking up before the Moon calls time on

The supping of their favourite liquorice wine;

And she thumbs them all home.

Along roads of spangled streetlight,

They grumble and groan, with sore heads.

And fall into their waxy beds.


Then sleepy hedgehogs come out and snuffle

Their way through the moon soaked grass.

Tracking truffle snails over frozen trails

Of broken glass; looking for an early breakfast,

With their quick, black button eyes.

Suddenly,

They stop dead,

Behind the muddled garden shed;

And curl into their itchy chestnut coats.

To hide from a swarthy fox, sniffing round the bins

For urban street food in compostable linings.

Or sugary treats which she paws with her soft velvet

Stockinged feet; disturbing nocturnal ants,

Lined up like trolleys outside a shopping mall.

They scatter like skeletal bees until someone shouts,

“Can we have some order, please!”


And as I rise to go back inside my humbled house

I get to thinking about my own small place,

Within our constantly evolving universe

And then, it dawns on me, like some giant switch.

There’s no real difference between any of us

We are all made of exactly the same stuff.

And I am consumed, with love!