Life Under A Toadstool Poem by Mark Heathcote

Life under a toadstool can be heavenly
looking up, not looking down,
seeing beyond these snow-capped mountains
that loop around the valley floor.
Where crystal water bubbles, outwards pure
and streaky bacon, pink skies wear-
green aprons with yellow kingcups
-dancing, pirouette beneath the Horse chestnuts.

Life beside these mossy-boughs amid lush grasses
can be moderately delightful
watching, while toad carries off her mate to placate
-his wisdom, his seed through her spiral necklace.
Where great crested newts mechanically walk
till they slip their bellies, flick tails like a knife
bolts of lightning with flashlights of spotted orange
-coiled inside a flask rising like steam barely seen.
Life under an ilex holly can be prickly and jolly
it all depends on how you see it,
if seen like the stoat washing his whiskers in a stream
after eating a blue tit egg, it's all a happy dream.