My Friend the Garden Snail
Where the wet, green moss waits
Along the edge of the old wicket gate
Where pale green paint has dried and cracked
And the old man has splodged some tar in black
Is where my red, round snail will slide
Up and down, each wet and dewy night
Licking up the bugs in the old gates’ cracks
Leaving slimy trails in its snail-like track
Where the cold, green, crusted moss waits
That’s where my red, round snail glides up the garden gate.
Along the edge of the old wicket gate
Where pale green paint has dried and cracked
And the old man has splodged some tar in black
Is where my red, round snail will slide
Up and down, each wet and dewy night
Licking up the bugs in the old gates’ cracks
Leaving slimy trails in its snail-like track
Where the cold, green, crusted moss waits
That’s where my red, round snail glides up the garden gate.
This poem is copyright (©) Fran Bridger 2025
About the Writer
Fran Bridger
Frances lives on Exmoor and always writes a poem for the local Exmoor News. She has been published in Mslexia, the Parrakeet Magazine and the Dirigible Balloon. In response to a relative's death during covid she published a book of poems to raise funds for Marie Curie. Much of her poetry reflects the environment, wildlife, farming, and nature.
