The snail pushes through a green
night, for the grass is heavy
with water and meets over
the bright path he makes, where rain
has darkened the earth's dark.  He
moves in a wood of desire,

pale antlers barely stirring
as he hunts.  I cannot tell
what power is at work, drenched there 
with purpose, knowing nothing.
What is a snail's fury?  All 
I think is that if later

I parted the blades above
the tunnel and saw the thin
trail of broken white across
litter, I would never have 
imagined the slow passion
to that deliberate progress.

Poet: Thom Gunn
Poem: Considering The Snail

Poem of the Day on:
Mar 13 2012

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