Again late-August snail-trail Bacchanalia
shines in the sun on flags like a Jackson Pollock,
this Sunday morning-after.
Elders, led by Little Toomai to the dancing place
of the elephants,* could not have more shining eyes
than mine - to bumble out of my back door upon't;
certainly, if I had a beard I would tug it in amazement.
I know I wrote about it this time last year.*
Was that coincidence? Or do these snails keep calender
deep in their spiral time, within the bossy point of shell?
Was all this one simple courtship dance that wove
its tangled, silvered trails across the concrete floor?
Or was it an orgy, full of Cupid-arrows?*
Each gastropod,
satyr and maenad combined, sunk saturate in pleasure,
lay twice conjoined and glued, beasts of double shell,
until the grey pre-dawning and the fear of Nemesis,
winged and beaked, shadowed their dreaming union,
like a bellying cloud across a moon-silvered lea,
and so, uncoupling, they faded into the hedge.
......................
*http://www.wattpad.com/24059849-under-the-wings-easy-like-sunday
*in Rudyard Kiplings's Jungle Book : Toomai of the Elelphants : http://www.authorama.com/jungle-book-11.html
* snails fire love darts into each other's flesh to stimulate arousal: wikipedia.org/wiki/Love_dart
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Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoetryA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
