Deroceras reticulatum

The bracing storm has ended like a life.
   A dissipated thing, slough of greyskin
hagging down the sky. Pallid, stalk-eyed souls
   have slithered, monstrous, up the rain-shod earth—
trails laid in viscid strings of filigree
   and whirligiging up the flagstones stacked
around your garden. Holes are opening.
   You can hear them, almost, in the squash patch:
the idle riddling of a broadleaved gourd,
   of all that’s green and good, mown anywhere
the slugs have slopped their snot-white forms, gnawing
   in the mirelight.
                             A penance paid, perhaps,
to One behind these shags of cloud. How vile
   He must be, this Raintender; even you
can’t stoop to palm the easy, lethal pinch
   of salt—for fear you should pollute your heart
with the shrivel of yet lowlier things.