1.

Flinched, the squirrel weasled past

a litter bin looking for scraps

cinching, past each morsel

as they unfurl

into tiny folds

each part, sumptuously

scoured

as it grouched over a demising paper

with scurried, lightening dimensions

while it measled its mahogany coat

on a pavement, gobbled

with trailed mouthfuls

as the sounds of a passer by

tapped-taped into a leaf-scrunching

existence

fielding its optical path

of leaves and fallen tracks

of more hurried feet

getting in the way

of would be scurrilers

hurrying to the shop

for a bite to eat

in wrapped cellophane

mustard and horse radish

not nuts nor bolts

of torn wrappers

littering the lined

pavements

of masked morsels

where the squirrel

harboured nestful of

bitten paper and miscellaneous

consumptions

for a forage of mounds

lying in piles for a

later retreat

‘crunch’

the child minds Bliftey

‘come here boy!’

Bliftey shifts sideways

looking for a morsel

to nip

‘squirch’

the squirrel

hunches, flicks a bread crumb

away

stretching the distance of

the mountain bike

whizzing through

the time it took to

squirch and flit

‘to whit to whoo’

to the bark of the

cedar tree

in defiance

‘nah’

narked

to wither to wilt

with jam roly poly

marmite and cheese

flicked to wail

the morning shaft

of light and shade

green humbug

blue, white, grey

arc-en-ciel

leafy crumbs veil

the plight of

a moaning Bliftey

and a child contorted

forcing a sharp prod

from an irate mother

of ‘why, now, when we’re

so far away, milpey?’

2.

‘Bahhh’

Bah sheep dog in the horizon

sees the litter scattered before his nose

smelling the diesel and the jam

jarred collision

of scurrying footsteps, pale and

torn

Barked, narked, bitter squeals

frosted by the cold nifty dew

drops glitter on silver shingled

fennels, rosemary and parsley

in the child’s mother’s carry-all

where a packet of gums case its lining

for her when she gets inside

to a warm pile of laundry,

jam making, stored on shelves

and the hurrying footsteps of a

patter-pitter tap

and a drooling tongue

hanging inside a canine sharp

mouth

‘bark, barked, barked-bur’

the furry sound of a distant

kettle whirrs as the child

climbs into its chair to

take his pick of apple slices

and toffees

and crumbs from a packet of

biscuit lying on the table

thrown now outside where

the squirrel glazed

in that path by the garden

where the mint was

subsiding over a potted

hydranea, tinged

to a hue of pink then

mauve, while

the squirrel

fenced in the snail

sluggish for its

silvery mark

trailing its track

‘slurr-glug’

Lady Bird, fly don’t

come hither to wilt

your wings where a slug

slugs by

the child is here wanting

to touch the slug that passed

an underground hove

of trails that slithered

and slimed into the child’s

mouth

‘no! milpey, no!’

the squirrel had tasted

this much besides

‘slithering slime-slush’

by the cedar tree,

snarled, 100 years

past of withery

silt and wiltiness

waith

‘wiles, wails, withery worsted rusted worth’

3.

Y-demised that worst of

a rotten branch?

Brackened, the doorstep

bent towards a forage of

crumbs and pastry

crackers,

white mice and cocoa

in a tin, brassy and bright

Michaelmas touched the worktops

with its hum-hum, bells and tinsel

where now the squirrel nests itself

by a nut cracker, durable

and brisk, near a trove of almonds and

horse chestnuts

in the cupboard, barely visible but

there, whilst it twitches sideways

and back

to a tin of mice and cream crackers

baring teeth that smacked of

toothpaste and rosemary garnish,

flouride crescents that tint its cheeks

Moriarity would have marked its agility

had he caught its tincture in time

and foiled Holmes elementary ‘comb’

to shift the squirrel back to its territory

‘squirr squirr, squirr, squelch’

rock cakes and jam, blackberry

picking in a bramble by the

bread bin, is where the crumbs

lie, hidden in boggish marshland of milk

‘slap, slosh, slash’

Quibble, quake oats, branded

in its wake, of a morsel

or two before the early morning

call of ‘breakfast is ready’

oats and all

‘beep, blip, buzz’

the hoard descends

to mass diminish the

carefully laid out table

of morning rituals

that didn’t take a

second glance to slop

and slur, gulped down

and gorged, splattered

and flecked like the

furry rodent

lying in wait

‘scramble, bracken and burr’

to seize its loot

and hoard its crumbs, biscuit,

cake, toffee and nuts,

trinkets and drumsticks,

scramble and sourced

stored, voraciously in home-driven pride

sensing gratified, it hides inside

©Coll B. Lue

Literary Media Spot blogger