Snailsmith

On my path,
among a midden
of wrecked helixes,
a stone that shines
with mollusc essences.

In the bush,
a small thing
of soft brown feathers,
that sharpens to a
point.

In its head,
does it rehearse, repeat, repeat
the thwack thwack thwack,
the smash to grab
that mushy meat?

Mark Totterdell


If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Mark Totterdell would be pleased to hear them.