Becoming Hedgehog

(i)

Noises are louder now: the kesh
of tyres on tarmac slicked
with leaves. Rain’s drumming thunder.

My other self pulls at me,
pricks from inside. Limbs compress, ribs
tighten around starved lungs. I furl;

I shrink, a leaf about to drop
quivering from its branch. Spine arches;
fingers, toes close in.

My needle skin hides me
in lengthening shadows: my armour
against the dogs, the melancholy owls.

(ii)

They all tell of frogs
snogged by princesses, lanky green
specimens transformed
into slender knights.

But it takes a special kiss
to break a hedgehog spell, to make
that knotted ball of me
unravel.

You have to place your x
just at the soft spot
at the tip of the nose, the point
where all taste and touch and feeling begins.

Slip, and you risk
mouthfuls of bristles, bleeding lips
and your one and only chance
to see real magic at work.

Andy Humphrey has published two collections of original poetry, A Long Way to Fall (Lapwing Press, 2013) and Satires (Stairwell Books, 2015). He lives in York and works as a solicitor. www.writeoutloud.net