Broken Homes

It’s not easy avoiding them, on a dark path, in the early morning.

Try in vain, the lack of light, but it all ends in tears.

Hidden shapes or curled up leaves?

One cannot tell as you trudge to the garage, to get your bike for the early train to London, knowing that soon the crunch of the summer snail will sound in the stillness of the morning, home and life obliterated in a single step, ooze and lifeblood flowing freely for the ants.

Mandibles chatter, wings aflutter, a flurry of activity, like a child with an ice-cream, extreme excitement as the colony presses forward, gathering sap and chunky bits for the big Winter freeze.

gravely saddening,
at least three or four today,
I had a flat tyre.

For Erin Alexander