Mole poem

 The Mole

 Down in this hole — this place I call home — I am cold, tired, and alone.

I feel the clotted earth congeal between my webbed toes

clawing at the walls towards the sweet scent of Worm.

Encased in darkness, I smell its body writhe,

taunting me with the fruit of its flesh.

My nails dig deeper, deeper, as my hunger grows.

That ambrosial odour so close, so close

yet the strength in my short arms is dwindling.

Each desperate shovel through the soil

is weakening.

 

I take my last swipe of the dirt

and the mud walls narrow.

I curl into myself:

aching and heavy,

cold, tired,

and alone.