Sunday 5 May 2019

1 Poem by Chris Keaveney

                      Inspired by Robert Burns' "To a Brown Mouse"

You see, your work ethic

means nothing to me,

the allies you accrue daily

on the way up the wall

and down again,

my early dismissal of you

not really open to debate,

triumph trumping rage

over promises made and broken

in the shady corner of the driveway

where I first noted

the belt of ingenuity that ran

from the wood pile to the house.

You may choose to regale me

with stories of blazed trails,

of the much anticipated treaties

you have yet to conclude with other colonies;

I prefer to fuss over another meal

spoiled in my half-hearted attempt

at hospitality. I too get riled

when the rains begin,

climbing out of whatever

it is that I have made a nest of.

You do your scratching

and I mine, leaving

trails in our wake

for our comrades to follow.

The world may never know

of the sacrifices that I have made for you

gang aft agley,

but you and I may yet find our footing,

the inevitable truce of the dry season

that drives us all out into the open.

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