(for Braz)

It was the birdsong we noticed first –

a change in tone from brightness to agitation

that told us something was up,

an uninvited guest at the party.

The wood was pounding with springy hues –

the infinite haze of the bluebells,

the absolute snowdrift of the wild garlic,

the acid green of the spurge –

and the birds clove this rave

with their alarm-call sirens.

I think there’s a stoat around, you said,

and then there it was, pogoing

to the beat, having the time of its life.

It had a swagger, an attitude,

not so much owning the dancefloor

as living the predator’s dream,

shimmying up an oaken trunk

to check out the tasty goods, until

it was chased down by an angry squirrel

shouting and shaking its fist.

Carefree in its personal chillout room,

the stoat pronked off through the ramsons

and away down the ride

with all the insouciance of Pepé le Pew.