I received my copy of The Writing Magazine yesterday ( October edition, it’s always a month ahead!)
Anyway, my winning Swanwick poem is in there so I can now post it here.
I find an ant crawling on my hand.
I blow it gently to the floor
and watch it march over the vast
continent of my rug,
its infinitesimal legs
working in sequential manner.
It stops to lift a crumb
bigger than itself to take
back to its nest,
for its queen and colony.
I marvel at the diligence
of this slender-waisted fellow.
It has reached the door.
My husband enters.
But he is not Solomon.
In one second the ant’s life is stamped out.
A sadness descends over me.
Will its comrades send a search party?
Will they grieve for this worker,
unsung hero of the insect world?
It is now a pinpoint cipher on the sole of a shoe.
Something of its life should stay.
I have this poem.