Daylight confusion reigns,

the creature fails

to separate diurnal from nocturnal rules.


One easily discerns

something’s amiss

but has no ready answer  


to the hedgehogs plight.

Find a nice box, line it

with newsprint, hay and towels


for the bewildered traveller,

leave it a snack

to nibble on. Come morning


the food has gone,

a coil of spines

heaves sleeping breaths


amongst the packaging.

I compliment myself

on job well done. Later,


the sun has reached it’s powering height,

the creature ventures out

and dozes on the sun-drenched lawn –


I move the spiky one

back into sheltered snuggling warmth

where he remains this time


but never roams again.



                                        Malcolm Evison

                                         12 August 2009

This entry was posted in POETRY. Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to SPIKE

  1. Jen says:

    Oh, Mal! It\’s beautiful. Felt like crying at the last line, though…

  2. Malcolm says:

    Pleased you like the poem Jen – sadly, it\’s all true … even the last line. I tried but was found wanting!

  3. penny says:

    Sad poem Mal, but well done you for trying to help the poor creature.

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