In the dampened morning air
the snails awaken
rising with the measured pace
of something coming into life.
Reborn from the rain, a hundred spirals
emerge from under rocks and earth,
lift heavily from the ground
and slowly, slowly, slowly
ebb from their shells
shift into shapely bodies
ooze into form -
life ripples through their fleshy folds.
They luxouriate in the slovenly
dampness, arch their backs
lift neckless heads to heaven -
primordial, awake, alive.
Every movement is tentative, deliberate
they ease their bodies over obstacles
caress every surface, feel through every pore
they feed, engulf, absorb.
Their kingly drapes of silver white
undulate in waves, cover invisible feet -
they tint the leaves with their Midas-touch
a sliver of glistening silver thread.
At the merest touch
of their tender, fleshy bodies
they withdraw, foetal, to their shell
to hide from the world outside.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Wonderful! Lots of snails where I live and I feel this poem!