Hatchling

The lizard – all movement, and miniature
to even my nine-year-old self –
was sunning itself – shimmering
on our fossil-filled garden wall.

I scooped it up quick in a matchbox
to show what I’d found to my friends
but forgot it for three or four hours.
By then it was stiff, dull and dead.

Helen Evans

If you have any comments on this poem, Helen Evans would be pleased to hear from you.