In a curly burrow

of branches, leaves and soil,

she noses through her furrow

a channelled tube of toil.

 

Of prickled spine and twitching snout

a miner seldom seen,

she nestles low when we’re about

to hide where she has been.

 

She’ll take the worm or tumbled egg

her furtive hunt is opportune,

too secretive to bravely beg

she shuns the Sun and favours Moon.

 

And as below then so above

inverted worlds in different skin,

where those alone forage for love

Not knowing where it might begin.