A hollowed apple fell from a bended bow,
Cushioned by sodded clay, care worn with spring sweat,
Riven round and straight through. Tunnellers remain, sated.
A neighbour’s ignorant beneficience gratefully received.

Given a month of closing days and mulching leaves,
I will not remain but return. These tunnellers reveal only gaps
Becoming gaping, until an unbidden wind blows through,
And changes a season leaving me at the mercies of brutal beaks.
Pecking.