Asleep on the Hay
The night was almost silent. In the house,
no sounds of creatures stirring could be heard.
All little lives – the beetle, flea and louse –
were snoozing, so it seemed. And every bird
within its nest, amidst the garden trees,
was also deep in slumbers at this time.
The winter air, without a hint of breeze,
was still. But in the hutch, a tiny rhyme
of grunts was coming from a guinea pig,
a pregnant sow named Truffle for her hair.
She stretched and strained to birth each mini-pig,
delivered in a sac, unwrapped with care.
A quiet quintet of squeaks began to play,
and then the babies slept upon the hay.
no sounds of creatures stirring could be heard.
All little lives – the beetle, flea and louse –
were snoozing, so it seemed. And every bird
within its nest, amidst the garden trees,
was also deep in slumbers at this time.
The winter air, without a hint of breeze,
was still. But in the hutch, a tiny rhyme
of grunts was coming from a guinea pig,
a pregnant sow named Truffle for her hair.
She stretched and strained to birth each mini-pig,
delivered in a sac, unwrapped with care.
A quiet quintet of squeaks began to play,
and then the babies slept upon the hay.

Picture by Felicity's dad
This poem is copyright (©) Felicity Teague 2025

About the Writer
Felicity Teague
Felicity Teague (Fliss for short) lives in Cheltenham, not far from Pittville Park and its wonderful wildlife. She has a very serious job in publishing and enjoys writing poems during her playtime. Her poetry has appeared in a number of journals and two years ago she published a first collection, From Pittville to Paradise. Her second collection is due out next year. She also enjoys art, birdwatching, films, music, and photography.