Last week was about bees – and do come to this on Saturday and Sunday, when The Isambards will be leading poetry walks among the bees. This week however, we’ve got rats. Yesterday we uncovered two types of infestation, one was local and personal when my elderly mother complained of noises in her bungalow, the other was national. This prompted the following poem. I make no apologies for putting it straight up, not what I normally I do, but sometimes you have to strike as best you can straightaway.
There are rats in the roofspace
of our mother’s house. She says
she hears noises as she lies in bed.
Definitely something with paws.
And though she’d rather we ignored them
I climb a ladder into a dull kingdom
of ripped insulation and unsafe footing.
I lay poison, squeeze back through the hatch.
This when an unelected Prime Minister
declares that Parliament will be prorogued.
The Speaker is furious, opposition
boxed in, and the Queen must agree.
As I say, there are rats in the roofspace.