The first slug of April came in through the door,
With a bright silver trail winding over the floor.
I felt a bit mean taking it back outside,
Though I know it will find somewhere leafy to hide.
I’m not fond of slugs in the garden at best
Their voracious appetite makes them a pest.
When they transform my hostas to fragile green lace
And their presence is visible all round the place.
And then they come in through the door with the mutt
Where I risk an encounter and find them barefoot…
It’s bad enough squashing a creature at all
Without feeling it squish between insole and ball.
The hedgehogs will be glad to find them, I know,
Now they’re un-hibernated, well after the snow.
(The small dog hates hedgehogs, since, feeling quite brave,
She found spiky balls that curl up misbehave
By sticking their spines in a soft, tender nose
…Though I think she learned fast she cannot play with those).
But still, the first slug, now evicted once more,
Had come as a messenger in through the door,
He’d woken from winter, a message to bring…
The rain’s getting warmer, it’s finally spring.