The Intruders

The door, all-but
hanging off its hinges,
snags the floor –
a sun beetle
with its iridescent,
jet-black armour,
scurries past my feet
to its refuge
in a heap of sawdust.

From a far flung corner
comes a rustle
as a squirrel scuttles,
rustles crumpled leaves
from some or other autumn,
to its nest
deep inside a pile
of paint encrusted cans

A bat swoops low –
a Serotine, perhaps,
through a gap in the roof
where the rain drips through.

Startled at my presence
it flitters in the air
before escaping to its roost
way up in the eves.

It is then I catch sight
of its young brood –
tiny fingers
grip the rafters
hanging on for dear life.

I need my shears
to trim the hedge –
instead, I hold my breath,
creep back outside.

Some other time, perhaps.
It is their world
on which I stumble.
It is I, not they,
who intrudes.