Weasel Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Weasel's a consummate predator
Foodcomes to him like little gifts in the grass

He rears stock-still, sensing a sudden movement
Like a Delhi worker hearkening for a train

At dusk there is a loss about to happen
A rabbit, a hen, a rat
Gone into his slim white belly

Weasel is magic, is shape shifter
Changes from statue to fury in a blink
Brings death with a flash of fangs

He is bloodthirsty, mesmerising
He dances his cunning war dance, a small Svengali

Tenacious, ferocious, he'll kill much larger prey
Weasel. He slays for pleasure as much as need.