Look, children, the wood is full of tigers,
scorching the bluebells with their breath.
You reach for guns. Will you preserve the flowers
at such cost? Will you prefer the death
of prowling stripes to a mush of trampled stalks?
Through the eyes, then – do not spoil the head.
Tigers are easier to shoot than to like.
Sweet necrophiles, you only love them dead.
There now, you’ve got three – and with such fur, too,
golden and warm and salty. Very good.
Don’t expect them to forgive you, though.
There are plenty more of them. This is their wood
(and their bluebells, which you have now forgotten).
They’ve eaten all the squirrels. They want you,
and it’s no excuse to say you’re only children.
No one is on your side. What will you do?