The snail crunched under her stiff shop-new sandals.
The girl picked up her foot slowly,
To star at the squashed grey gel
Oozing and spreading around the splinted shell.
A broken bad egg.
She turned to watch her mother who,
Through open french doors,
Sand along to the radio as
She washed the blue and white striped breakfast crockery.
Her eye-lashes fluttered, as she looked up,
Feeling her daughter’s gaze upon her.
She smiled and waved a soap-sudsed hand
And returned to her task.
The girl gently rolled her foot over the murder
And cracked the shell further,
Satisfied in the smash and the sound,
She went in search of another snail.
No comments:
Post a Comment