Slithery, slimy snakes and snails,
Wriggling, crawling, sliming across
The forest floor in the undergrowth.

Nibbling magic mushrooms, giggling like
Alice in Wonderland.

Buttercups, teacups, all here in the undergrowth, the poet’s imagination.

Robert Frost, lost in woods by a road in the undergrowth.
(Seriously!)

No time to waste, run rabbit run. How the lichen and moss grows so slow and so old.

Robin McNamara