Wombat

Beneath the surface at the end of a long earthy stretch of air, 

A wombat stealthy scuttering back in self-defence. 

My curious mind wonders as,

My ears listen to the sounds of pitter-patter along a pile of mulch.

Combined with rustles along leaves,

Creating an unorganised yet soothing orchestra.

A needle of light warming the shrubland,

Threads through a canopy of cloth.

A maze of greenery and spiky thorns,

An obstacle for craving wombats.

Scavenging through for the desired flavour, 

The flavour of luscious grass.

Scoffing down food as rapid as a snail,

The grass is like donuts, both pleasurable and bringing delight.

“Crunch, crunch, crunch,”

An explosion of taste turns into a bubble of bliss.