Concrete Jungle Poem by Ernestine Northover

He swings his torch high and low,
piercing the dark undergrowth, green and lush,
casting a glow across the swampy places.

Leeches creep onto his laces,
and wheedle their way up his trouser legs,
these bloodsuckers are the dregs,
adhering to the skin on his shin.

They hang on tight. Gee, how they bite!

This tropical location he is in, has become
a fixation. Such beauty lit up at night, as parrots
take flight, screeching out as they flap their wings,
and a tree frog clings to a gnarled old root,
eyes staring resolute, tranfixed by the dazzling light,
and frozen by fright, until the fear eventually
sends him off, to scoff some nocturnal meal,
which will appeal to his taste buds.

Suddenly, the light flickers and goes out,
and he tries to shout, 'Where is the spare lamp? '.
He cannot tramp blind through this wild wood,
where there is a likelyhood of predatory reptiles that kill.
He feels a chill run down his spine.

And then a sound penetrates his ears. What is this he hears,
birds are loudly singing, and his wife is bringing him a cup of tea.
He feels all shivery!

It must have been an extreme dream.
For no rainforest meets his eyes, just a couple of buzzing flies,
and the cries of his children at play,
at the awakening of another day.

With a sigh he moans, 'Oh, why should I live in this
drab concrete jungle. What a reality, in all its totality.
But at least, I suppose there are no snakes, or are there? '.