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.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Systematic Racism is not just an “American problem.”

The murder of George Floyd has sent shockwaves across the US and the globe. The thought that a police officer- in a position of such trust and authority- could abuse their position and harm a civilian is deeply alarming. However, while the UK are outraged and abhorred by the countless victims of police brutality in America, we cannot ignore the problems in our own country. As residents in a secluded rural town, we are often unaware of the racism that occurs daily. I know that I, myself, am in a position of privilege. I never have to worry about the colour of my skin and how that will disproportionately affect me amongst others, yet this is sadly the reality for many. No empathy I feel can ever amount to the fear and upset black people must feel right now. When many people ask “why are they protesting here when George Floyd was killed in America?” We need to recognise our failures regarding systematic racism in Britain. The UK historically is at the epicentre of racial exploitation an
Read more

The Story of Splatchscrumpler: An Evil Toad

Image
Down in the valley there was a deep, dark forest. In the deep, dark forest there was a muggy swamp. The swamp was full of fog, mud and slimy goo. In this swamp lived a toad named The Splatchscrumpler. He was the only toad in the whole swamp and lived in the hole at the edge of the frothbungling mud pit.   The air was full of a revolting stench caused by The Splatchscrumpler’s farts. It smelt like if you mashed old smelly sardines into a bucket full of rotten eggs and mouldy carrots. Splatchscrumpler was the most ugliest, biggest, wartiest, meanest, greediest toad of them all.   His skin was a splotchy dark green and so lumpy and slippery that he went squelch when he plopped around. If you touched him your hand would wrinkle up and fall off right away because it was so unbelievably disgusting. His face was dry cow pat hit with a heavy spade and peering underneath were two eyes: beady,menacing and glaring.   Splatchscrumpler was extremely large, so large in fact, that if all the hippo
Read more

Pomegranate Poem

  Pomegranate The stained glass beads fall into the china bowl as droplets of red rain water. A tap to the skin, more spill congealing like frogspawn in a pond of pink juice. Little eyes gander their crimson tears swell seeing their mother's fruit husk. Scooped up by cold metal the pearls between my teeth a burst of sweet blood pools in my mouth. Until they are no more.
Read more