Poetry – The Gardener

Summoned from the glasshouse

I join my husband to stare at the animal,

unmoving in a hole.

New to the area, he is affronted

by this thing he doesn’t know.

I tell him it is a hedgehog,

its hibernation disturbed by our looting.

He is unconvinced – pests always come out in Spring.

It is better to sacrifice one hundred innocents

than to let one guilty one go free.

History will forget it, my husband says,

and so should you.

That night, I wake in a sweat,

having dreamt of a hedgehog on its back,

tiny legs poking out of fresh soil.

In the morning, I throw a little more dirt on the grave,   

mark the first post of our house,

bury my poem.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s