The wife, the world and its social workers

mither me to cover the garden pond.

They'll seize upon these two hedgehogs

face down floating, almost submerged

beneath autumn debris

as evidence for the prosecution.

 

Chattering birds dress rehearse

a courtroom recrimination:

exhibit feathers and bones of chicks

torn by ample-bellied cats

and call for bells round feline necks

and forms of reprehension.

 

They haven't thought it through.

 

How would frogs hop in and out?

What would quench the thirsty?

I've watched Big Cat Diary:

the experts wrestle and agonise

when leopard cub lives

are jeopardised by sated lions.

 

They always eschew intervention.

 

Cultivate one's own garden

was Voltaire's best advice.

 

He never mentioned ponds.