Fleur Adcock

For a five year old A snail is climbing up the window-sill Into your room, after a night of rain. You call me in to see and I explain That it would be unkind to leave it there: It might crawl to the floor; we must take care That no one squashes it. You understand, And carry it outside, with careful hand, To eat a daffodil. I see, then, that a kind of faith prevails: Your gentleness is moulded still by words From me, who have trapped mice and shot wild birds, Your closest relatives and who purveyed The harshest kind of truth to many another, But that is how things are: I am your mother, And we are kind to snails.