The tale of the maverick woodlouse


 

I lived in dust, detritus, assorted dead skin, hair and

Miscellaneous pieces of lego too small to contemplate.

The odd cheerio,

A spider or three.

Sand, bland, somewhat damned.

Pot-bellied pig excrement occasionally

Livening up the proceedings.

Beads.

Buttons.

Brighter than the others but inanimate.

Spiders weaved their webs into beautiful sentiment,

Making joy out of dead dusty musty places,

But I could not.

My brandishing French soul felt the urge

To charge out of the bag.

I charged relentless to the hills,

And saw them,

Shrivelled from some long dead battle.

The peas.

I curl up into a crunchy ball to honour their green

Memory.

Solemnity fills the air,

For a moment.

But I toddle on, my little legs headed somewhere.

Mais oui, cherie,

A hoover bag is not the place for me.

I want to see the sea,

A tree,

A buzzing bumble,

Be free.

That is the life for me.

The wind caressing me as I roll down the hill,

And struggle my pithy little legs until

I can right myself and

Toddle back up again.

C’est la vie, cherie,

Undoubtedly.

 

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