Mark Scrivener

Poetry Poems Original Verse

Monday, April 11, 2011



Small grass skinks creep,
from lands of gradually-dissolving leaves,
and rest in quiet,
scales iridescent in the light,
silenty soaking in heat;
sides swelling and shrinking as they breathe,
as if entranced or half asleep,
yet they're alert to shadow fall.

Are they
the microcosmic cousins of
earth-shaking thunderers, long gone all?
As if wrong-telescoped by time, some say.
But what of sizes anyway?
Within their garden world they're great
cockroach fighters of the reptile state.
And what awareness have they of our size?
We are not scaled to minute eyes.
I wonder if it is the same for us,
worlds within the one.
When shadows fall how shall we guess
what friendly watchers stand between us and the sun?


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