A wolfless howl
In the moonlit chimney
How busy, the wind
The green woodpecker; it seems aptly named.
As green as a lime, or so it is claimed.
And incessentaly pecking at the first glimpse of dawn.
But what lovely treats lurk there on the lawn?
I feel sorry for ants, I do have to say,
Just going to work at the start of their day.
On a march to some sugar scouted in a bin,
When a flying jade-terror from the heavens swoops in.
Peck—there goes one! Peck-peck and two more,
But an ant isn’t wooden—that’s simply the law.
Who named this menace? They must make amends
For so cruelly misleading our poor insect friends.
Why should a woodpecker really peck at ants?
Surely a tree—those most woody of plants.
Or perhaps at a shed—would that be a good’n?
A little dry, maybe, but at least it is wooden.
Not that I blame our green friend in the least:
For indulging at breakfast in its acidic feast—
Just doing her thing lacking reason or rhyme,
Blameless in this nomenclatural crime.
Linocut. Christmas cards. May yet add some red.