Poor Frog

A few storm clouds were gatheringIn the west above the hills.But the twins, my wife decided,Three years old or not, should get their thrills

In the fresh air, not in a lounge-litteredWith toys – this once-upon-a-time pristine roomNow transformed as though by a thief high onDrugs and booze, burgling in the vacant gloom.

So off we went, wrapped and wellied-outReady to face the northern winds and rain.The goit we studied on the way to the streamWas rich in frogspawn, but the frogs, the bane

Of my wife’s life when they squelched their slimyWay into her life in our overgrown patchOf land we called our garden, were bidingTheir time in the clumpy jelly about to hatch.

Cole remembered when darling grandma screamedLike a bird earth-bound with a broken wing -A giant of a frog had jumped right beside her,A pulsing nightmare, a non-human thing.

‘Romey, Romey, come quickly and seeA frog’s driven grandma so crazy.’So they stared in amazement, even alarmBy a grandma transformed, an hysterical baby.

But this was a dam building morning.How we laboured on that ice-cold day -Two old ones damming the timeAnd the young ones laughing in play.

This is their time for living and laughingI thought, when no one will ever die . . .But my thoughts were washed awayWhen Roman spoke and gave a gentle sigh:

‘A ducky grandad, what a lovely bird.’But the duck in that instant swallowed a frog –Alive – ‘Poor frog,’ said the child, and the manMused: is this when he wonders, where was God?