It's amazing what is hidden away
there by the mere on a summer's day.
Deep in the grasses where it's cool -
there on a nettle - he's no fool!
Far enough down that the birds can't see,
for he doesn't want to become their tea.
He'll stay here until the darkness falls,
then out he comes and on he crawls.
For this is the time for him to consume;
not really bothered what or whom.
Little shoots, withered stems or tasty leaves,
even creatures that are dead he thieves.
All that remains as the morning comes
is a shimmery path and perhaps some crumbs.