The Den by Elizabeth Henry

I thought they might be toying

When they said they’d built a den

Cobbled up from twigs and ferns,

Beside the pheasant pen.

 

An incy wincy snuggery

With Lilliputian door

And shards of scratchy farmyard hay

Upon the shoddy floor.

 

A sanctum and a hideout,

An eyrie and a lair.

I can’t believe they wanted me

To spend all night in there!

 

A cavern and a burrow,

A warren and a hole,

A place of pesky callers

Like the excavating mole.

 

Inside a ring of boulders,

They’ll light a blazing fire

To char their foraged edible

Upon a raging pyre.

 

Adorned in cosy thermals,

They’ll opt to spend the night,

Immured by eerie squeals and squawks,

As woodland owls takes flight.

 

And when they wake from sleeping,

They’ll crave a comfy bed.

I’ll find them stiff and grumpy,

With their legs like heavy lead.

 

But still, they’ll have enjoyed it;

It’s where they like to be –

That furtive little hidey-hole

That no one else can see.