Turtle Turning

Turtle Turning

Wearing its storm-trooper’s helmet

 which is both rain-shelter

and armour against predators

 my nephew’s pet turtle moves across

its table-sized enclosure, crushing

 down the grass the way a Russian

tank rolls over the debris

 scattered through a ruined city;

its long-necked narrow head might

 belong to a snake, though it

revolves in reconnaissance

 just as a periscope extends,

especially when the reptile

 submerges in the pool

at the centre of its domain

 to become a submarine.

The pattern on the turtle’s shell

 is like a map of the world,

or of the earth’s tectonic plates,

 but it never shifts or quakes.

Instead, the turtle is searching

 for an escape route, lurching

toward the low brick walls which hold

 it trapped as if within a well.

Arrived at the base of the wall,

 the turtle begins to climb,

its scaly clawed feet achieving

 traction somehow, so that leaving

the ground to set out on a vertical

 ascent, which might seem impossible,

takes it hardly any time.

 One would expect it to fall.

And it does fall, at the moment before

 it arrives at the top. With all four

feet in the air, it ends up

 on its shell, like a teacup

balanced on a pantry shelf.

 Yet it finds a way to turn itself

over, resume that helmet-shape,

 and continue to plan an escape.