Exposed

Vicious, bitter winter gales,
Expose some hibernating snails.
But do we hear loud woeful wails?
Not so far.

Clinging to the brick house wall,
Glued as though they'd never fall.
Do they feel the wind at all?
Don't say so.

Perhaps they're wisest not to rush;
Sit out the risk of passing thrush.
But do their shells, inside, seem lush?
Unlikely.

Some are only baby small
Who cling, unknowing, to the wall.
And have they seen the sun at all?
I doubt it.

What patience, ignorance or folly,
Leads these snails to not so jolly
Huddling - as, beneath a brolly,
So might I?

But while I ponder on this thought
I'll do what nature says I ought:
Restore the board the cruel wind caught:
Their shelter.

poem © Celia Warren 2013