By John Idris Jones
He knows the ways out,
The paths, short cuts and gaps.
He has no love of roads
Or lanes, but prefers
The underbrush, the tussocky slopes,
The rocky ridges, the spongy mosses.
His voice is a shrill alarm
That pierces the air
To warn the intruder.
No one need disturb him
On his own heath.
He is small,
And he cannot fly
For any distance,
But his legs are strong
And he makes up
For his lack of wings
With his speed and agility.
There he sits
On a low branch
Peeping out at the world
With his beady eyes
And his long claws gripping the bark,
A perfect picture of wild alarm,
The alert guardian
Of Exam Time Heath.