The Tortoise (for Bridget)
When the tortoise crawls out of hibernation from the box of straw
will the rings of her ancient shell shield her from regret
will her wrinkly head recall the sound of that voice
the haunting echo of her wild warm laugh as it’s mouth
takes it’s first bite into a life sustaining lettuce leaf?
Are tortoises bereft of feeling? Is that the secret of their longevity?
I run a poetry writing pop in at the Open Art Cafe Rottingdean on the first Wednesday of each month (except August) for aspiring poets 10.30 to 12.30 and free!
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