Frances Samuel

I see the hungry caterpillar

I see the hungry caterpillar
scrounging its way across the day.
It has prickles on its back
yellow-ringed eyes and a red face.
I know the blue-shaded segments of its green body
the slow march of invisible feet.
Not a bird watcher, I can’t tell you
which bird would eat this caterpillar
but I wish one would
snatch it up in its beak, throw it high like a lasso
and gulp it down.
That hungry caterpillar
filled with plums and sandwiches and cakes
rasps closer
still looking famished.

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