A Snail is climbing up the window-sill
Into your room, after a night of rain.
You call me in to see, and I explain
That it would be unkind to leave it there:
It might crawl onto the floor; we must take care
That no one squashes it. You understand,
And carry it outside, with careful hand,
To eat a daffodil.
I see, then, that a kind of truth prevails:
Your gentleness is moulded still by words
From me, who have trapped mice and shot wild birds
From me, who drowned kittens, who betrayed
Your closest reletives, and who purveyed
The harshest kind of truth to many another.
But that is how things are: I am your mother,
And we are kind to snails.
No comments:
Post a Comment