this poem is all about using metaphors.

like a snail,
slipping and sliding
through urban landscapes,
avoiding the sharp sand, shingle,
and poisons placed as traps along the way.
Some head for fresh green grass, but then
become the shrivelled, dried out empty shells
found under broken pots, detritus and general decay.
All trying not to leave silver tracks across
the hearts of cabbages and roses.
Most feel they haven’t done too much damage.
But some hope the slime they have left on life
will be washed away in a rain shower
like snail tracks,
that disappear into the dark soil

Diana Leighton 21st May 2011