Slug wars

Leaving their silvery signatures
every night over the breadboard
ghost-slime, delicate calligraphy
messages from the hereafter
unfathomable as God.
Ectoplasm, faery bunting
festoons the taps and gas rings
the morning after the party.

Cool as tuxedoed secret agents
neither shaken nor stirred
they outwit deadly salt rings
set to fizz their insides out
side-sliding death to vanish before dawn
like vampires to dank coffins.

Intangible as spirits
except on rare ambush nights
when we surprise them:
plump middle-aged lovers
caught inflagrante by moonlight.

Maggie Butt

If you've any comments on this poem, Maggie Butt would be pleased to hear from you.