Slime

In the quiet basement of a primary school,
a lone beaker sits under the muted hallway light,
its contents a whisper of colour, a fugitive of water and glue.

Children, in their tidy shirts, pause—
fingers poised over the rim like watchers of a secret.
The slime slides, an obedient snake, glimmering with honey‑gold,
stretching and tottering as a child’s grin widens.

It is a quiet rebellion, a gooey miracle that refuses gravity,
yet obeys the teacher’s gentle tap.
“Just another experiment,” the headmaster says,
but those in the room can feel the pulse—
labour in a small, slimy drum.

Be careful, little hands:
the texture turns, the sheen grows,
the drip that trickles onto the carpet a slow, deliberate question mark.

Outside, at the bus stop, a different kind of slime sees its day:
the slick, wet trail left by a stray dandelion seed,
a trickle on the pavement— it's not tidy, it’s alive,
with a soft, almost whispering trail of dew.

And in the far corner of a country kitchen,
the old memory of the grandmother’s soup pot clusters—
a skein of brown, thick, releasing steam like a small, warm sigh.
That’s slime too, the story of the day.

So whether in a science kit or a countryside morning,
slime remembers the balance it's always on:
softening the hardest surfaces into the shape of wonder.

It may be sticking, sticky, crunchy, soft, and sheer,
but in its glistening embrace, it’s a quiet reminder
that sometimes the greatest discoveries are the little, molting things
that creep us forward, slowly, howling at the edges of tidy order.