I wonder what nibbled on it? Not a holly blue’s caterpillar, probably.
Stroppy Shelf Life
The dead birch trees dream of Ötzi the Iceman
and of their pale youth
when a coat of green loyal ivy
shaded them from bulbous fungi
– not a shield from whipworm, a human problem after all –
One silver birch still stands,
stretched tall to the blue sky,
snug in the coiled embrace of fruiting ivy,
alive with bumble-bees
– or are they the selfsame carpenters that drilled their brethren’s polka dots? –
The winter cat awaits with polished claws
and snowy cloak, hidden in its cloudy paws.
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