Midnight in the garden and the slugs wage war. An army of camouflaged assassins are taking bites out of the flowers with a reckless disregard for their longevity. A solitary snail stands guard over his patch of Eden, one Spartan against Xerxes’ horde. I don’t fancy his chances.
The battle is long taking its toll on both parties. Never has the midnight garden seen such intent, such vicious teeth-baring, such flaring from stalked eyes. Even the owl who nests in the great oak that backs onto the cemetery keeps his distance. He is wise, but not as brave as I thought.
Morning is almost upon us. The first tangerine glints of dawn flicker on the horizon. Flowers are waking in the colours of the earth, weeds, too. The owl is asleep. Our snail stands proud, undefeated, the greatest warrior the garden has ever known. The slugs will reach him soon.