by Richard O'Grady
That hills' too steep
for horse or cow to graze,
but I'm mistaken,
the nibbling done by rabbits now
their burrows,tufts are legion.
Everywhere I look
the hillside bare
comes alive with frozen forms,
and as I wait, in one's and two's
chase here and there in scurry.
I'm watching them
but they're watching me,
two eyes against a thousand.
Who's watching whom?Who's winning the war?
Who intrudes? Who feels at home?
Man owns that field, or thinks he does,
then why does no grass grow?
Harvested first by furry friends
no payment sought, none given:
"We were here first, keep off our grass,
our need is great - you ass!"