The hedgehog

Do you have a garden manacured and neat
or a wild oasis more like a rubbish heap
leave out a bowl of water, for furry friends to sip
the bolden fox, badger with it's pointed snout
 or a sleepy hedgehog on a walkabout

Squinting as he feels the springtime warm
count his spines and keep them uniform
 for Spike's breakfast, seeking out a tasty worm
swallow it in one, and feel it squirm

Not the kind to garner false display
he seeks camoflage to hide himself away
his lair of autumn leaves, the winters nest
small legs, no match to outrun faster pest's

A treat, some primium cat food on a silver platter
eliviate Hunger games of winters teeth that chatter
oft the butt of jokes, endangered, only few remain
they die not on the cross, but on the roads are slain

The innocent, condemned under the tyre
and some are spared, and some expire
not spring lamb covered in mint sauce
 his pleasure, to sniff the bloom upon the gorse

Long hibernation to endure
how short or long his near future
from winters rest to springs arising's
and life's a ball in frightened times
a coat that bristles, like spring buds arriving

For this nocturnal being
 a glimpse is all I'm seeing
in that festival of colours gleaming
 hiding safe, amongst the greening

 Cowered under prickled armoured shield
the gardeners friend, in hedge and field
a simple life amongst the slugs and snails
 resurrection is the growth that he enabled