Badger

As the dusk of a still

And a silent eve,
Descends to the arms 
Of the waiting night.

A rustle does sound
Through the lying leaves,
And the brittle twigs
Of the dying wood.

The cautious eyes
And a wary stare,
Emerge from the dark
Of the hidden sett.

As the badger roams
In the quest for food,
Through the bones
Of the tracks he wore.

Andrew Blakemore
Art Jemima Jameson