Down hopped the woolly jumper of the sandhills,
Tickling the telamons’ toes
With her tail,
The jolly jerboa, disorientated,
Was heading for our cave like she’d been invited
I reached for my tucker-bag and whistled
The bright-eyed yellow rat studied me -
Me, I, me, ?
- A drooling saint who sees both kinds of locust too often,
And not a lot else.
She did not hang about.
They never do, I find. I’ve yet to bake
One in a pie.
Hippity hop! back up the sandhills
Not stopping even to thumb her nose.
You were impressed. I watched you
Flex the metatarsals in your hind
Legs, test your toes.
My six-month pigling was suddenly the jerboa
That could not jump.
I whistled nonchalance.
You eyed my tucker-bag
As I eyed you.