No mean to offend,
young laddie,
a point, if I may
It’s ‘Quirrels, not Squirrels
..a difference of ways
Not all big bushy tails
have ‘Quirrels
attached
Maybe pedantic,
this dance with semantics
perhaps, but
more than
a letter amiss
or our ginger tinge
to explain with this,
the Them and Us, they,
while swing from tiny twig,
we’ll seek the tallest tree, fly,
fall, all, as always, without a fuss,
them, no fearsome frights, no sense
fun or adventure, they’ve little rewards
no risks, no treasures
So cute, so cuddly?
so canny, so needy,
with greedy grabby razor Teeth....
Hard lives to fulfil, you’d think!
flitting from bark to branch,
boring and every day,
dressed in grey
while us,
ducks and dodges
tankers and trucks
between the wheels, but
chance is our dash;
life in the moment
or squished in a flash
...That’s how it rolls,
fast and loose, the Lowlands,
life without stale imitations.
Red or dead.
And never enough mush,
only enough for another
furry, fat Squirrel
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 2:38 AM UTC
No mean to offend,
young laddie,
a point, if I may
It’s ‘Quirrels, not Squirrels
..a difference of ways
Not all big bushy tails
have ‘Quirrels
attached
Maybe pedantic,
this dance with semantics
perhaps, but
more than
a letter amiss
or our ginger tinge
to explain with this,
the Them and Us, they,
while swing from tiny twig,
we’ll seek the tallest tree, fly,
fall, all, as always, without a fuss,
them, no fearsome frights, no sense
fun or adventure, they’ve little rewards
no risks, no treasures
So cute, so cuddly?
so canny, so needy,
with greedy grabby razor Teeth....
Hard lives to fulfil, you’d think!
flitting from bark to branch,
boring and every day,
dressed in grey
while us,
ducks and dodges
tankers and trucks
between the wheels, but
chance is our dash;
life in the moment
or squished in a flash
...That’s how it rolls,
fast and loose, the Lowlands,
life without stale imitations.
Red or dead.
And never enough mush,
only enough for another
furry, fat Squirrel
This poem plays with two truisms; the Scots aren’t overly keen on the English and the Red Squirrel population (the ‘Quirrels in the poem ) has been all but wiped out in England by the grey squirrel. Most of the remaining Reds are now found in Scotland, presumably not there for the weather! The poem is a conversation between a ‘Quirrel and some poor badger he’s cornered, probably in some Glasgow pub towards the end of the night when he’s a bit worse for wear. The idea was to keep the rhythms random mimicking the way a squirrel / ‘quirrel runs, stop, start, quick, slow, but never smooth and never straight.