Ode To A Hedgehog
Herbert shall I call you,
for short, Herb or Bert,
hedgehog, led by your snout to sniff
for bugs and grubs in dirt,
under my back garden bush?
But Herbert sounds too human,
a country gent who likes his pipe and beer,
rural life not lived in a rush,
like an attempt to anthropomorphise you
into a whimsical tale or cartoon.
If I could I would, on fiddle and flute,
compose for you a twig thin tune.
Truly, earthy, son of the soil,
you slumber much with little toil.
A mansion’s grounds a paradise for you would be,
with well established, long rooted hedgerows,
and many a shady tree,
bushes, flower beds, finely mown lawn,
secluded, bordered, silent,
to wake there with sunset,
sleep on through day from dawn.
Unobtrusive, small, spiky coated mammal,
a peaceful, quiet life you lead.
Needful to the perfect garden
as root, sod and seed.