silver breadcrumbs

before the tennis courts
snails leave their jagged mess of silver breadcrumbs
but never turn back

they run the gauntlet

taking on the footpath chariots
the drunks and joggers
the small shoes of  children
and broken glass

they block out the wider world
focus on the next centimetre

as tennis racquets
fire their dull gunshots
and the horizon
burns chimneys down to black

not a single twitch from their liquid eyes.