How I learned a surprising lesson in resilience
Poet and artist Frieda Hughes sees an example of grit and determination in the most unlikely of places
MOLE POEM
The mole has met the road’s aggregate at the verge
And hit his soft and downy head against
The sharp, compacted stone through which
The spades of his digger feet cannot find a way.
He tosses up a mound and tries again,
A little to the right and another mound,
The sorest of paws and another headache,
Only to find the bony black mass still obstructs him.
He continues to dig towards the field across the road
Moving a little to the right each time but being blocked.
He can smell the vast food-store as if the worms are beckoning
From beneath the sheep-trod crust and sodden green.
The sheep stand in their gateway, puzzled at the mole’s mind,
And watch the roadside earth only feet away
Across the separating strip of mole-resistant tarmac
Buckle and granulate upwards, one hillock after another.
Every day I walk the huskies past the string of mounds,
Each one right next to the other, so far fifteen,
And still the little mole has not given up
And turned around.