The Snake

Walking through the clover
autumn grass and long,
silver as my fading hair,
damp in the dewy morn;
a stirring at my feet
quaking seed-heads, brown and ripe,
a lowly snake, green and cold
tangling at my feet
brushed my  socks.
He had more right than me,
I stood and watched him
uncurl his slippery coil,
alarming slug and snail,
pushed him with my stick
not to hurt the pure complexion;
his attack on me not offence
he as scared as me.