Back Door Snail

Slurped up safe inside its shell,
away from sight or touch or smell,
slime and suction serves it well:
the snail on my door.

Glass it doesn't understand,
cannot think of manmade land
or prying cameras: underhand
behaviour at the door.

Yesterday, I snapped the thrush,
today, the snail, who will not rush
to further hide, but ride the hush
of resting on my door.

Although I love the thrush's song,
sleep on, small snail, you, too, belong
in this mad world of right and wrong,
stay safely on my door.

Sleep well, snail, in your shell-cocoon,
though soon, I'll sing a different tune,
when scrubbing slime you've kindly strewn
all over my back door.

© Celia Warren 2016