Honey and Lemon

Jogging around Barnes Common one April morning

when a rat crossed my path twenty metres ahead.

A fat, furry fist spelling danger from the tip

of its pointed nose to the end of its pointing tail.

Dogs daily, magpies frequently, rats? Never.

So, curious, I swerved left into the undergrowth

and took the overgrown path back to where

the beast (it had doubled in size) had scuttled.

Three strides along and there it was, barring

my way like a rival gang of football hooligans.

Red-eyed and snuffling, PLAGUE written all over it.

Motionless, I tried to stifle the fear rising within.

Having read in one of those survival handbooks

that rats love lemon, I spat the honey and lemon

pastille I was sucking straight into the bushes,

and sure enough, the brute dived in after it.

Unfortunately for the rat, a huge grizzly bear,

mad for honey, came crashing through the trees

and tore the creature to pieces with its iron claws.

By then, I was back on the road sprinting for home.