It never really knows the light of day
And only an occasional blast of air.
In its dark bed, it waits and grows by stealth.
Its nature is most generous to all,
Admitting others to its colony.
Though hair and fibre are its chosen food,
Torn paper-tissue, bits of woollen glove
Are also welcome. And if luck is in,
Then something sticky nourishes and binds.
A happy hibernation suits it well,
And even drenching merely unifies
Its varied parts. Should human fingers probe
The pocket, pull up pokflok with their nails,
The upset’s only temporary. Life goes on.
This piece of writing is featured in PEN’s e-book, “The Dictionary of Made-Up Words”, made in partnership with the European Commission Representation in the United Kingdom. Read the whole book!