Slugs. Never been a fan. As a gardener I have treated them as the enemy. But is that fair? Without slugs there would be an awful lot of rotting vegetable matter cluttering up the garden. Perhaps, as this poem suggests, I need to rethink my relationship to slugs.
The Slug, a Plea
You squash us
and slice us.
You bash us
and dice us.
It’s almost as if you don’t want us around.
We gnaw at your seedlings because they are weak,
the same for the hostas that bear a pale streak.
In vegetable patches and in the raised bed
we clear up the dying, the rotten, the dead.
You drown us
in beer traps,
Drop egg shells
Why is it us slugs that you torture and hound?
By munching the rubbish we make the ground clear:
we give you a space for your planting next year.
But take us away and the earth will be spread
with all of the dying, the rotten, the dead.
Just leave us.
don’t paw us.
We’re working with you on a shared piece of ground.
© Huw Evans 2019