THE BADGER DEEPER than your graves I dig The endless
tunnels of my home, Brock, the old grey badger-pig In my mazy catacomb.
Silent and assiduous, Storied levels I have mined, Galleries promiscuous, Exits you will never find.
Cunning, clumsy but unseen, Shuffling round the covert's edge, You can tell where I have been Nosing at your garden hedge.
Roman, Saxon, Norman . . . You! I have watched your changing line As you hurry to and fro Near this ancient home of mine.
Brock's Hill, Brockfield, Badger Weir . These were never named for you! They are mine and I was here When Stonehenge was raw and new.
Hunted, baited, trapped and shot, For the lambs I never stole, I still find my chosen spot And a place to dig any hole.
Bring your dogs and foul my bed, I will fight and never cease Till the spade-blow on the head Forces me to final peace.
From my cave mouth I can see Ursa Major shining there And I know myself to be Last descendant of the bear!
PETER HUTTON.
Previous page
