Squirrel’s Ovation

For Claire Ogle, Happy Birthday

By chance I came to be there,

where playfulness is free,

to catch a turning, mischievous stare

count once, then turn to flee.

He dances, daunting, dashing,

plays truant on the leaves.

I hope one day to match him,

the wood’s own ashen thief.

Amid the boughs, he’s chancing,

eloping with the breeze,

each skip, each leap romancing

the spirit of the trees.

The air-like light embroiders

his coat, a rusty grey

with sun-flecks that disguise him,

the master of the drey.

© Andrew Williams 1991

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