It Poem by Andrew David Dalby

padding silently,
so dark brown its almost black as night;
with its feelers outstretched,
every step is cautious careful delicate.
Then it waits...
before moving rhythmically once more.
Everything it does has purpose,
the wait, the tapping as it tenderly traps.
Its my voice that gives it movement.
while reading and pondering Lawrence's 'snake',
I sense a subtle similarity;
as I feel it looking down,
and sense it crawling through my hair,
leaving icy ripples down my back;
I can feel it waiting
for me to conclude...
and so carefully... leave the room.