The butterfly, alive inside a box,
by John Fuller
Beats with its powdered wings in soundless knocks
And wishes polythene were hollyhocks.
The beetle clambering across the road
Appears to find his body quite a load:
My fingers meddle with his highway code.
And slugs are rescued from the fatal hiss
Of tyres that kiss like zigzagged liquorice
On zigzagged liquorice, but sometimes miss.
Two snails are raced across a glistening stone,
Each eye thrust forward like a microphone,
So slowly that the winner is unknown.
To all these little creaturesI collect,
I mean no cruelty or disrespect,
Although their day-by-day routine is wrecked.
They may remember their experience,
Though at t he time it made no sort of sense,
And treat it with a kind of reverence.
It may be something that they never mention,
An episode outside their apprehension,
Like some predestined intervention.