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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