The denizens had died weeks earlier
curiosity-killed in the jaws
of traps that snapped vertebrae
they lay with eyes like blackberry grains,
mild revulsion overriding the soft fur’s
invitation to pet.
A mini tragedy, but fair doos:
serves yous right for poaching potatoes
and shitting in the grocery basket,
bag them up and bin them,
us 2 : mice nil.
But opening the drawer was sadder,
the mess of paper, leaves, string,
shredded cotton in patched-blanket squares;,
like a primary school art project,
A nest bereaved of its owners
the body-warmed, soft work
of quiet, secret, darkness hours.
A simple safe haven,
the best laid plan
of nightime scurriers,
and nibblers of potatoes,
“Poor things. Look, they’ve used all sorts.
It seems a shame, you know;
I’ve had worse housemates.”