Outside the Door

The snail trail is real,
But, make no mistake,
The snail waiting at my door,
That creature, is a fake.
And yet a constant knocking
Is keeping me awake.

The snail, made of resin,
Can't move inside his shell.
He's purely ornamental,
Which I know very well.
So why have I seen fit to take
The battery from the bell?

The snail trail is real,
Its broken tracks remain
To prove a snail was here,
But there's nothing to explain
The silence since he vanished,
Or the crawling in my brain.

poem © Celia Warren 2011