Survival
A lowly blossom, striving to sustain
her beauty in the early morning mist,
the crocus, craving moisture to maintain
her stoic fight 'gainst winter's iron fist.
A lowly mollusc slithers 'neath his shell,
he slowly weaves, and leaves a silver trail,
antennae primed and ready for the knell,
when sparrows poke and peck his coat of mail.
Creatures and plants in the midst of the fray,
searching for sustenance, dying of thirst,
staving off hunger, say, is there a way
to count ourselves blessed, not feeble and cursed?
Predator, prey, both the fittest, the weakest;
who will prevail? I would bet on the shrewdest!
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2013
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