The Saturday poem: Nightlife

by Jo Shapcott

Nightlife

Darkling, I listen. I can't hear

the ultrasonic tones and pitches,

but I can catch screams and whistles

crick-cracks, ticks and chitters

the all-night calls of foraging mothers

to their babies, parked on a high branch;

the clear syllables of passion, clicking

at a frequency to stir touch, huddle

and groom. If I had the nose for it,

I would understand the meaning of musk,

those rhythmic scent marks rubbed along

the branch, the gorgeous piss-gold for

self-drenching, for spraying territory,

for shouting to the forest I am I.

• This poem was commissioned for a new series of Writers Talks on Endangered Animals in ZSL London Zoo. The next talks will be Helen Dunmore on Sumatran tigers (Tuesday) and Glyn Maxwell on the midwife toad (20 June). See Jo Shapcott talk about the slender loris on our website

• Poetry

Jo Shapcott

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