Thursday, 20 April 2017

A poem by Brett Evans

Sloth and the Snake

Sloth farts himself awake,
groans indescribably - deprived
of sleep as he already is; bickering
neighbours, yelps and yawps have stolen
Sloth’s beloved canopy of lullabies.
And Sloth knows he’s too simple
but this morning, even he picks
up on disturbances. Sloth’s shoulders
stiffen momentarily as strength
is mustered to reflect on the beauty
of all he can see, tune into the protest songs,
drown out water cannons, rubber bullets.
But the black snake is about to slide
across the wide Missouri – far away,
that rolling river - and it’s not
the ever mournful leaves
that spill onto Sloth’s once carefree cheeks.        
Energy enough to chide Too simple
for this world, battling his eyelids
knowing dreamcatchers grasp
less than he does, Sloth feels fresh;
snatches the closest branch
as if it were a lance.

Brett Evans lives, writes, and drinks in his native north Wales. He is co-editor of poetry and prose journal Prole.
Dog walks are preferable to phone calls.

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