On to poem number three of NaPoWriMo. This one is slightly less surreal than the last two, so I'm hoping it can viewed as an attempt at natural realism. It probably isn't, but that's okay.
Slow Worm
A hill covered in bracken,
dew-soaked and shrouded
in fog. A forest huddled in
the valley below.
Under the faded leaves,
a flow worm, with dull
copper scales, burrows
through the moist earth.
Every grassy tussock
in between the ferns
is a slow worm's fortress,
protected by mangled roots.
Slugs and spiders don't dare
cross the slow worm's porch.
It stares out at the world
with gleaming red irises.
Adders, foxes and badgers
will come searching, but
it will hide in the deepest
chambers until they pass.
No comments:
Post a Comment