The Slowworm's Tail
sunlit path alone,
she sees it: thrashing rhythmically-
left, right, left, right - on the stony ground.
Tapered tip, twisting over burnished bronze,
brushes a stump of blood and bone - arcs away,
to coil again in supple symmetry.
The newly shed tail, eyeless and mute,
discovers its own loss.
For impossible minutes, she watches
as it writhes in the dust, aware
only that it is not whole -
then turns away to face the steepening path.
Where can it find such energy, she wonders,
now that its heart is gone?
If you've any comments on
this poem, Sarah Willans would be
pleased to hear from you.