An Apology

All that remains in this garden
of the pond I exhumed last spring
is a bare sandy circle
edged by a flat tessellation
of trapezoidal stones.

Squatting on the rim of that ring today
was a frog, all horny eagerness and expectation,
oily wetsuit sparkling in the sun,
who clearly hadn't heard.

A slow, deep breath in
through a pair of forward mounted blow-holes,
eyes slowly closing as he savours the moment.
Then the twin pneumatic pistons of his legs
sent him high into the air.
All limbs extended into a very X-rated X.

I can hardly speak of the disappointment
I felt for that seemingly insignificant amphibian.
The guilt I felt as the soft silver keel of his underbelly
hit the dry gravel with a dull thud,
rather than a long awaited wet splash,
followed by the pure chimes of water droplets
falling back to ripple the surface.



How could I have known,
that as I stood waist deep in silt
under new green leaves, bailing years of neglect,
that my actions would bring such sadness.

So then what then of the lawn,
lovingly mowed just this morning?

The neighbour, hauling old concrete
who I did not stop to help?

And what of this pen,
frantically scrambling along
the blood red veins of this page?