Frog – what could you tell me of spawn

slipping from flesh into the possibilities

and treacheries of spring? The gum and

gulp of mud in the winter pockets of

a pond? And what might I tell you who’ll

never know the feel of countless trivial

things – dimpled citrus peel beneath

thumbs or the sole’s shudder as roller

skates rumble over concrete? Who’ll

never clatter up the staircase of a

double decker bus or put lips to a rim as

Guinness steams its glass. Frog, let’s

picture a damp and grassy bank which

spills to a lake – its minutes  lower-

lidded and leaping. Glanded-skin

shedding to the tick of a three-hollowed

heart, its tock four-chambered – tight-

pelvised hours upright and apish. A

watery brink where we might

conceive a language and a frequency,

we both can hear and speak. Frog,

don’t suggest elliptically, instead, weave

your web-toed similes as light through

reeds – like a diligent poet on a

glorious day – O Frog, astonish me.