Something had to be done about the moles;
labyrinths stretched from the garden
down to the hollow. Give moles an inch
and they’ll burrow up to your door.
So we dug holes in their paths and filled
them with old coffee cans. Bleary eyed,
dirty noses raised, down in the can
they’d be covered in silt like coal-miners
pulled from a cave-in. If you weren’t cruel,
you carried them over to the woods
to knock them out of the cans. Mad as piss,
they’d shovel off in the light to other pastures.

 
Listen to Matthew Haughton’s reading of “Moles” below…

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