D H Lawrence

Tortoises D H Lawrence

You draw your head forward, slowly, from yourlittle wimpleAnd set forward, slow-dragging, on your fourpinned toes, Rowing slowly forward. Whither away, small bird?Rather like a baby working its limbs, Except that you make slow, ageless progressAnd a baby makes none. The touch of sun excites you, And the long ages, and the lingering chillMake you pause to yawn, Opening your impervious mouth, Suddenly beak-shaped, and very wide, like somesuddenly gaping pincers; Soft red tongue, and hard thin gums, Then close the wedge of your little mountainfront, Your face, baby tortoise. Do you wonder at the world, as slowly you turnyour head in its wimpleAnd look with laconic, black eyes?Or is sleep coming over you again, The n