The Badger

Amongst the Earth
and ancient flint,
the downy grass
and scent of mint.

Old Brock snuffles
and sniffs the sky,
secretive forager
of the night,
with painted face
of black and white.

Through the bracken
upon sturdy paws,
under the tree tops
where night wind roars.

Starlit back that
bristles and weaves,
to tease the worm
from the cold earth
under nettles and leaves.

That finally yields
to the chomp and gnaw
of moonlit fangs
and digging claws

Then through the hedge
and across the fields,
into the sett
to lie concealed,
from the hands of men
and the spades they wield.

And the bitter stones
are opaque and cold,
amongst the old rug fur
and stocky bones.