The Squonk

Through hemlocks where the dappled light
Falls softly as a breeze, it weeps by night.
Its tears are limpid, sweet, and dark as oil,
Its skin's like warts, its breath like musty soil.
It festers where a stream or river ends,
Cries like a child that seeks to make amends,
It brings bad luck to those who hear it moan,
A sad spirit or beast, it squats alone.
If seized by hunter for the stone it bears
Whose inner fires illume a myriad nodes
Within its burning brain (like certain toads)
It dissolves in its tears and leaves its cares,
To form the human's new and deep nightmares.

The Squonk's View

The giant blunders stumble through the light
Blocking the pleasant songs we make at night
With our refreshing tears of mirth at toil
We cherish our tough skins, our breath like soil
Is rich with all the ripening of the fens,
Some human children make like-sounds in grief
We recognise your little lives are brief
And if we sit apart we've time to spend
In silence reaching out to nature's end
If uncouth giant dares to lay thick grip
Upon our splendid hides, we moist will slip
Our burning brain's prophetic stone to dew,
If this may cause you nightmares, more fool you!