A squat, brown, limpet-like cone
Baffled, I bent down to inspect
Grasping it in hope of hearing the sea
It turned to powder in my hand
Creation of a nocturnal sand artist?
Or a runic sign left by dancing fairies?
Maybe a tiny tornado’s detritus?
So neatly piled and perfectly formed
And yet, the same timber hue as my bed
‘Anobium Punctatum’ said ex-terminator
Common furniture beetle to you and me
Ate his way out after three years’ cosy feeding
Flew new-winged towards the light to find a mate
We found him dead and virginal on the sill
Bore-dust vacuumed, Boron applied
My big sleigh bed was soon reclaimed
That night however I slept but little
So long had literary-sounding larva slept beneath
Wriggling, munching, growing, listening
While I was breakfasting in bed, so was he
When I in slumber lay, he slept too
And listening to my love life all the while
Not exactly my kind of threesome
Not my usual choice of bedfellow
Beloved rosewood bed, Indian import
Sacred, pristine-sheeted womb of refuge
How extensively did he mine your heartwood?
And was he but a lone traveller from Madras?
Or do structure-weakening siblings burrow still?