The Porcupine

Michael Peach

At midnight hour within the garth,
Along a narrow moonlit path,
As if on tiptoe, due to haste
(For not a moment could she waste
While Man at large was fast asleep),
A rustling porcupine did sweep.

I stood aside to let her pass;
Instead she swished her bristly arse,
Then stopped abruptly, stamped a foot:
The quills did rattle, sway, outshoot.

“Nocturnal duchess,” I began,
“Put down that flesh-impaling fan!
Such daft behaviour must now cease,
Like you I’m here in search of peace.”

29 December 1993

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