Wormlike Confession Poem by David Taylor

I remember playing in the garden as a child
with a magnifying glass in the bright life giving sunlight
(and nothing more worthwhile)
focussing the light on some unfortunate sliding worm
watching it wriggle and then burn, and painfully squirm,
chasing the ants with a concentrated 'beam of death'
as they marched in innocence on their daily quest.

I never told anyone (until this moment now)
how I used that golden sunlight to torment those insects that I found
I guess even then something inside me told me it was not right
now I tread carefully both in the darkness and in the light
avoiding, if I can, crushing those poor creatures in the soil
that must live in unlit darkness as deep below the ground they toil
and, it seems to me, preferring to stay out of my sight
(and I cannot blame them)
what I did was wrong, but then I did not know it wasn't right?