A Little Squirrel (Fun Poem) - Poem by David Harris
All summer long he collected his nuts
Burying them here and there
When it came to dig them up
He couldn’t remember where
He hid his treasure store
The moral of this tale
Be sure, there is one indeed
If you want to bury your treasures
And you ain’t that smart
Draw a little map, that will help for a start
The fattest squirrel I’ve ever seen lives in our
neighbourhood. It favours the back
gardens of half a dozen houses of which ours is one. It runs along the tops of the
fence panels that separate us from next door, the narrow alleyway and adjacent
properties. I’ve watched it climb our buddleia to reach the fence of the garden
opposite. It moves fast, it is cute and although it’s grey, my grandson and I
call it Nutkin, after the Beatrix Potter character. This one still has a
complete tail. Its main occupation is eating and digging. Nuts are buried only
to be dug up again.
Most of our garden was removed a couple of years ago.
Neither of us are able-bodied enough to do much digging or maintenance and it had
become overgrown and neglected. Birds were responsible for the planting of unwanted
sycamore trees. The holly which used to
look so pretty ‘in berry’ had died on one side. The dark magenta berberis was
beautiful but too prickly to deal with.
Weeds were knee high and everything was woven together with brambles and
some sticky grass our dog had collected from walks on the nearby field. It had become a messy, unusable area. We
needed a practical, easy-care courtyard, somewhere pleasant to sit out and safe
for the grandchildren to play. We found the right person for the job, no, not
Alan Titchmarsh, but someone with equal expertise and vision, and he was happy
to carry on in our absence – we took off to Scotland. It is a good idea to
escape the noise of home improvement tools, particularly mechanical diggers,
chainsaws and lump hammers.
When we returned there had been much digging, much removing
and now there was much sunlight reaching previously inaccessible places. Not a thorn or prickle remained, it
looked wonderful, and that’s before it was finished. We had two small garden
areas, easy to plant and look after, needing nothing more than a trowel and a kneeling
mat, and lots of space for children to run about. Planters and flower pots
placed randomly could be moved about as required. The end result was and is
perfect, just right for us non-gardeners.
The other day I decided to re-pot a worn out houseplant and
see how it faired outside. It was either that or bin it. (This activity could
be listed under ‘Things to do in Lockdown.) As I prepared an outside flower pot
by removing something that didn’t matter to create space, I kept finding buried
monkey nuts. Squirrel Nutkin. I left them out for him / her.
Seamus Heaney’s famous Digging
Between my finger and
my thumb
The squat pen rests;
snug as a gun.
Under my window, a
clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks
into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I
look down
Till his straining
rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up
twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm
through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot
nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside
knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall
tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new
potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool
hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man
could handle a spade.
Just like his old
man.
My grandfather cut
more turf in a day
Than any other man on
Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him
milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with
paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then
fell to right away
Nicking and slicing
neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder,
going down and down
For the good turf.
Digging.
The cold smell of
potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the
curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots
awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to
follow men like them.
Between my finger and
my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.
Seamus Heaney (1939 –
2013)
