Paths puddled with still water,
grass shellacked, peristaltic
stretch of slugs to inch along.
They shoulder cloaks like groomed snow,
if the clouds could confetti
down glazed terra-cotta scales,
if sky were bog and stained white
the red of the Jutland brick.
A slug passes by a snail’s
discarded shell in shards,
blind to the descending boot
before it’s smeared silent
into gravel, a deck fanned
out on the table. Pure chance:
sole meets slug, might meets mucus –
the world depends on the kindness of strangers.