They will tell you

"Come, wind, to my hole,"
Said the blind black mole,
"And I will make a dwelling place
Just for you – there's plenty of space."

Oh mole, the wind is majestic and free,
He cannot be held by earth and sea,
He blows where he pleases, no-one can chain him,
And nothing mole-made could ever contain him.

But what if he came?
What if the wind actually
Came to the mole,
Became a mole,
Chained by earth, mole, love?

But why indeed should he?

They will tell you
Who went to sleep in their burrow
And woke to find themselves
Somewhat higher, somehow above the grass,
Their fur turned white,
Leaping on lamb-legs,
Opening singing eyes
To daylight.

July 1995