Snail in April
This spring will not advance.
Bruised clouds darken over Arran,
Monotonous raindrops scatter in still air.
I stare into the garden noticing nothing
Except, on the washed surface of a grey flagstone,
A small coil, motionless,
Monochrome in the sodden light.
It lurches sideways, a minuscule, slowly rocking boulder,
And the snail within extends itself on the slick stone,
And starts its heroic haul to the far side of its world,
Towards the sheltering leaves and new-born blossoms
Of Honesty. Heedless of dangers,
It slides, without resting, without wearying,
Single-minded on its own slipway.
Chasms between the slabs present no obstacle.
Its quest for progress is silent and relentless.
While a prescient blackbird,
Sensing, despite the downpour,
A rising glass, a clearing northern sky,
Provides, for background, his new season’s song,
To quicken the plodding heart.
Copyright © Gordon Gibson 2018
Gordon Gibson lives in Troon, South Ayrshire. Over the past seven years his work – poetry and prose fiction – has appeared in a number of print and online publications.