God made us brown so we'd be hard
to spot upon his fertile soil,
to hide from the birds...which he made as well...
to cower, dodge, to postpone hell.

But slug does not hide, or flinch back.
His coat?  Uncompromising BLACK.
He turns defence into attack.
Oh slug – oh glorious slug.

God gave us shells to weigh us down.
Without them, we would HURTLE round,
so common sense suggests.  Who'd beat us,
across a distance of ten metres?

But slug, dear slug, you have the grace
to not rub freedom in our face,
to slow your stride to match our pace.
Oh slug – oh glorious slug.

God made us quiet, thoughtful, wait.
He taught us manners, and restraint.
He taught us not to stay out late,
we're model garden citizens.

But slug, he DEAFENS when he speaks!
He goes out seven nights a week!
Beer-swilling, hard-living, party beast.
Oh slug – oh glorious slug.

I'd sell my soul to be like him.
Vacate my shell, and dye my skin.
I'd go twice weekly to the gym,
if doing so would let me in

to doors in town that say 'slugs only.'
But slug accepts no fake, no phony.
I'll love, but I will never be
a slug – oh glorious slug.

Has it been four days now?
Must have been.  Nearly a week
since I did the deed.  It was dark,
and I was hurrying – I didn’t see
his form, the path in front of me.
My careless size-ten shoe came down,
and crushed his hopes and dreams.

My stride stopped mid-step.  Sickened
by that sound, the chilling crunch;
I saw him, when I lifted up.
A tragic mix of slime and shrapnel.

And now – although you’ll doubt –
I swear he’s back.  I am the mollusc’s
sole unfinished business
on this fast and brutal Earth.

You’ll say it’s in my head, if I report
that I can hear his death
in every mistimed gearshift,
every mouth devouring crisps.

But it’s not my conscience doing this,
it’s him.  He’s putting me through hell.
I hear, with every step I take,
the breaking of the tell-tale shell.

Last night, I thought I saw him,
bright and cold, in death.
Slowly sliding next to me,
and felt his tiny, ghostly breath.

‘It was dark!’  I scream.  ‘I was hurrying!’
His silence says it all.  But still,
you don’t believe me?  Come on round,
see the trails across my walls...

and explain the vengeful holes
in my fridge-ridden, cellophaned lettuce.

Twenty years from now,
where will we be?

Perhaps you and your husband
will have grown apart,
but I know you’ll stay together
for the kids.

Perhaps he’ll even let you
go out late some nights,
in a short black dress
and high-heeled shoes
when you’ve kissed them all
goodbye.

He’ll know what you get up to –
but he won’t care,
and neither will you.

And neither will I,
‘cause I won’t know.
I’ll be in some little
coastal house,
writing my poems
and ignoring the world.

But I’ll probably look you up in the end.

Will you even be alive?
Will I stagger to the top
of a hill, in the rain
and on reaching the summit,
stare in shock, at your grave?

Will I fall to my knees,
drenched to the skin,
and reflect that, in the end
I am the lucky one
to still be living?

Or maybe – just maybe,
in twenty years time
fate will have brought us back together.
Maybe I’ll wake up every morning,
and see your face.

Maybe I’ll walk into the kitchen,
and see you lounging
in your pyjamas,
with a big ‘good morning’ smile
that you’ve been saving.

Maybe we’ll get rid of our excess bread
with regular trips to the pond,
and we’ll laugh, as the ducks gather
round us, like children
to fight over what we have brought.

(I would sell my soul
for a chance to live
in heaven.)

I don’t live in the present,
I dream of the future instead
and the best thing about that
is that it isn’t set yet.

For now, it is
all fiction –
I am in control,
I can make anything happen.

But really, all I hope is that
two decades down the line,
your happiness will always be
a little more than mine.