The tale of the maverick woodlouse


I lived in dust, detritus, assorted dead skin, hair and

Miscellaneous pieces of lego too small to contemplate.

The odd cheerio,

A spider or three.

Sand, bland, somewhat damned.

Pot-bellied pig excrement occasionally

Livening up the proceedings.



Brighter than the others but inanimate.

Spiders weaved their webs into beautiful sentiment,

Making joy out of dead dusty musty places,

But I could not.

My brandishing French soul felt the urge

To charge out of the bag.

I charged relentless to the hills,

And saw them,

Shrivelled from some long dead battle.

The peas.

I curl up into a crunchy ball to honour their green


Solemnity fills the air,

For a moment.

But I toddle on, my little legs headed somewhere.

Mais oui, cherie,

A hoover bag is not the place for me.

I want to see the sea,

A tree,

A buzzing bumble,

Be free.

That is the life for me.

The wind caressing me as I roll down the hill,

And struggle my pithy little legs until

I can right myself and

Toddle back up again.

C’est la vie, cherie,