Mole

A full sky,
so crammed full it may plummet,
pale grey, dense, delivering polar snow.
The paddock in shining cloudscape,
a brilliant white duvet of silence.
The five oaks sleep
beneath a funereal gauze of morning mist,
as the nauseous silence demands my attention.
Then stirring noiselessly, at my feet
dark wet earth,
an eruption of chocolate crumbs,
morsel by morsel, rudely,
blemished brown cake on white icing
upside down.
A moley leather nose
One sniff and he is gone.

© Graham Sherwood 01/10