Orange Day Parade

by Carolyn King

The black slugs on the lawn are turning orange.

They come out nightly - or in rain -
like Black 'n' Tans patrolling the grass,

yet less aggressive: gentle giants weighed down
by duty; burdened by obesity; wannabe snails
longing for the protection of shells.

I feel a strange compassion for these ugly mutants:
they should be beautiful - colours richer
than burnt sienna. Yet I shudder

at their artwork - vivid streaks
on a canvas of shamrock, silver outlines
scrawled across the concrete of the yard.

Not that I bear them any kind of malice -
for these are harmless ogres, freaks of nature,
unaware that fear incites atrocity,

engenders murder in the meekest soul.
My flesh creeps: dreams become nightmares;
I'm in a cold sweat, eager for dawn to drive them

under the bushes or into the underworld
of crazy-paving cracks beneath my feet -
like dinosaurs of hideous proportions

or icebergs sinking into lukewarm seas -
resting their pitiable loads
until the damp air beckons and they re-surface:

look-alike flames, slow-burning bonfires,
flaunting their orange nakedness;

dispassionate; green to my black designs.

Judge's Comments - Roger Elkin

A striking poem with well-sustained and imaginative imagery throughout. The poem captures the ambivalence many people feel towards slugs: "ugly mutants" and "freaks of nature" that have the power to fuel "a strange compassion". The writer charts a range of changing moods from fascination - "they should be beautiful" - to repulsion as "My flesh creeps: dreams become nightmares", when facing the self-knowledge that "fear incites atrocity". How can these "wannabe snails / longing for the protection of shells" be a threat? Here there is the faintest of links with the references to Black 'n' Tans and their political excesses in 1916 Ireland, a comparison suggested by their colouring, "black ... turning orange", "vivid streaks / on a canvas of shamrock". The hyperbole of this is further compromised by the parallels with "dinosaurs of hideous proportions // or icebergs sinking into lukewarm seas"; and the description of them as "look-alike flames, slow-burning bonfires". And yet, despite this, what remains verges almost on an honouring of these "gentle giants" that is perfectly conveyed in the poem's isolated final line."