Boundary Hedge Poem by Miki Byrne

In the ditch the leaves were crisp and deep.
A layered accumulation.
Protected by the deep overhang of the hedge,
that curled like a matted wave over me.
A musty, woody odour rose up.
Leaves rustled as I settled myself like a bird
into its nest, hunched into the friable
residue of years of autumns past.
Light occasionally pierced the branches
that arched above me. To scatter pale shapes
that danced and flickered.
Bare twigs clattered lightly in the breeze and I sat
still as a stone. Holding a crust of bread,
Pilfered on the way to homework and quiet-time.
It was a crime I committed most days
and left my pockets full of crumbs
that wedged their way under my nails.
After a while, the squirrel approached me.
Its nose twitched. Its tail was a question mark.
Tiny paws reached out and I watched it eat.
Each movement an economical jerk of paw and jaw.
The bread did not last long, nor the visit it had enticed.
I scrambled out as dusk began its delicate shading
and brushed my uniform free of leaves and loam.
I made my way to the cloakroom,
hoping to sneak in unnoticed.
Though well-practised in breaking rules
I did not want to be caught. For that would mean bed
and no supper.