Rat in the Garden

It's a grand day, my Grandad would say:
a summers morning. Red lupins, white bluebells, thistles -
our green tortoise plodding on green earth, eating green cabbage and hay,
we sit in our glass tin, watching nature do nothing,
I read today's Times while Gran whips up some cakes (ginger) and Grandy whistles.
The perfect dullness is interrupted by a high screaming
a flea-bit rat struggles to break from its net prison

outwitted, outsmarted by its human superiors who
watch it, magnified through clear walls, a while longer.
Grandy, old boy, grabs his spike (specially prepared), like the
hunter gatherer do.
The Times goes down and I watch him grow stronger:
a man possessed, defending his gardenwomb from this vermin demon,
he spikes the b*****d, good and true, and has a moment of pleasure
watching the invader writhe around his metal weapon,
A defenceless barbarian, begging... begging...

begging for his life from his human superiors
who are once again sitting in their glass tin
baking those gingery sponges, reading a film review... but Grandy (old boy) is serious:
A rose tint to his face, his lips trembling. Sin.
For that little creature took a while to kill
Grandy, old boy (despite his skill)
feels like a wretched murderer, clammy and shoddy
the red lupins, white bluebells, thistles breathe on its trembling
body.