The Slowworm's Tail
Walking the sunlit path alone, she sees it: thrashing rhythmically- left, right, left, right - on the stony ground. Tapered tip, twisting over burnished bronze, brushes a stump of blood and bone - arcs away, to coil again in supple symmetry. The newly shed tail, eyeless and mute, discovers its own loss. For impossible minutes, she watches as it writhes in the dust, aware only that it is not whole - then turns away to face the steepening path. Where can it find such energy, she wonders, now that its heart is gone?
Sarah Willans
If you've any comments on this poem, Sarah Willans would be pleased to hear from you.