An otter at a bus station
Is clearly in want of a punchline.
He might have been whimsy personified,
With top hat and cane, descending.
We knew he’d alight in Stroud,
The place is a byword for such fancies.
He might have been a metaphor,
Wild nature, back from the brink,
Dark pelt in yellowed street light,
Away to the secret urban stream.
The otter at the bus stop
Speaking to life’s absurdities,
Uncertainties, and little wonders
Before an elegant exit.
He may have been a God
In water resistant fur,
Sprung from the fabric of night
To re-enchant us all.
An otter at the bus station
Waiting for his punchline.
Probably three will turn up at once.
(This is based on something that happened – it was definitely a dog otter based on size, which is why I’ve gendered him, he was indeed very close to the bus station in Stroud, just passing through, as dog otters tend to do. We were very close, briefly, and it was wholly surprising.)