Red squirrels here in Brittany are shy.
But I saw five at once the other day
engaged in brazen daylight robbery.
The walnuts and the hazelnuts were ripe.
The squirrels got at them by aerial leap
from overhanging oaks, bridging a gap
which you would think required the power of flight.
Never a false move. Every judgment right.
A season’s harvest picked off, fruit by fruit,
to be secreted in the neighbour’s wood.
And I, indulgent victim of this raid,
am rich in nut trees, poor in nuts, and glad.
Listen to this poem — read by the author