THE WEASEL

The weasel, whimpering,
did not realise he was trapped
in the arms of the
spiritual wilderness, who only
wanted the best for him, and cuddled
him as if he were a pup.
The night lay ahead as ominous as a
new hat. The road was
tarred with the grief of a thousand
generations. The leaves
whispered that the despair
of weasels meant nothing
to the Sun, who they called a rabid
busy-body anyway, and what
did it matter if the weasel
did not have a university education
or a soapopera degree? Wasn’t it
enough that he loved the shadows
as they overwhelmed the vastness?
Wasn’t it enough that he adored
the leaves, that he spoke
a language understood only by blackberries
and bees? Wasn’t it
enough that he had a Father who
held him more tightly than
a burial? Somewhere in
the heart of the weasel there
flickered the awakening
of centuries, glimpsing
in the harbours of the
sky the dense beginnings
of rumbling feet.