12th August – Scribbles and Slugs

I listened to the radio earlier, they are running a poetry competition. Maureen said I should enter. So, I took my notebook into the garden with noble intentions of writing something stirring. After two hours I had managed six half-hearted lines about mud, plus a rather handsome doodle of a slug.

The slug seemed to stare up at me as though demanding a sonnet of his own. I began to wonder if the slug’s perspective might actually be more interesting than mine.

Perhaps poetry is just telling the truth about puddles and leaving the roses to Maureen.