Snakeskin

Out to lung-fill new day air
on my hermitage trampoline
spied some shards of
snakeskin on the mat:
spent curtains, they skimmed
still dream-glazed eyes.

Like lightning strikes –
strangely substanceless
yet weighted bright
the castings floated
near utterance, held
light as passing thought.

“New life”, I breathed –
looked up, saw locked in
logic’s rafters
some two metres of
fresh-shucked skin,
glad as a cast-off shirt
tailed by life’s latest breeze.

And I wondered at the owner:
How far had he moved on?
What colour his new life look?
Deep emerald starred yellow?
Perhaps an earthy brown
flecked grassy green?

The colour slipped
my skipping mind
but I knew how he felt,
that snake:
shiny and fresh –
slicing through the grass:
chuckling at life’s best trick –
and gift – of all.

Copyright © Paul Dobbyn Poetry