Out in the garden at 9:25
That’s when the slugs all come alive
Tempted by the wetness of post-rain pavers
They exit from hiding
A kind of sluggish amble
Taking a gamble
On hedgehogs not being out for their dinner yet

Slugs in shiny, plastic macs
Some with spiralled haversacks
Some of them in striped pyjamas
Anticipating melodramas
They cope with the sniffing of inquisitive dogs
Though they’re not so keen on the snuffle-hogs
(But the barrelling predators can hardly fail
If they follow the slimy, snotty trail)

Still in the garden at half past nine
I play my part in the pantomime
Collect late-remembered washing from off the line
Trying to dodge those tubes of slime
But sense underfoot their mucus-sy fat
Scrape them off on the un-WELCOME mat
And though I realise it’s not their fault
At 9:35 I reach for the salt


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