PS Cottier

I was meant to stride through

armour jingling, a whole orchestra
of metal bits, cymbals and triangles.
But something made me rest 
in the still, mushroom strewn wood,
dank and smelling like dogs’ paws.
Taking off the shiny carapace,
I wriggled into the moss, napped,
awoke to a gnome stealing gauntlets,
to store in some illicit cavern.
I decided not to give chase.
Let him take what he wanted.
Rolling over, my moist pillow
seemed to release rich spores
imbuing me with memories,
indistinguishable from dreams.
Before all this striving, all these 
ventures and clashes, I used to
take the time to examine things,
the varied feathers of birds, 
the damp exigencies of the frog.

Who knows? In a hundred years
someone may find a mossy log
shaped a little like a knight,
on which an escargatoire of snails
pursues the silver quests of their kind,
clothed in quiet brown armour of shell.

PS Cottier

Any excuse to use the word ‘escargatoire’…