The Soiled Snail

Where pepper clouds of birds

And shying leaves swing

From ferns and greens airing their scent

Sits the soiled snail

The instinct to recoil

Stick somewhere unexpected

And mark soft the soil

By breaking down, getting to eat

People also pull up a perch

Shuffle slowly across the ground

And in the garden world

Sift the same dirt, feel the same air.

By J.W.H. Hobbs.

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