Carl
Rain on the shoulders of our black coats;
minibus windows clammy with steam;
twelve of his teachers squeezed like a squad
into a tinier space.
Discussing the route took all of ten minutes
and the getting of petrol - now or after it all
was over? 'Might make us late' -
We thought about us being late;
drove on.
Brighton was traffic, lights
on hold, people, umbrellas and dogs.
Nobody knew
where to turn.
On the road behind
a slow car brimming with flowers;
a shiny red train on the top
of a very small box.
Frog on Worthing beach.
Dead, but that's beside the point.
The tide, far out - just frog and sand and sea;
shingle glittered sequins in late sun.
In the West the skyline light
washed in pale old gold:
elsewhere was softness:
shadow and blue cloud.
By my toe nudged flat, he lay
in miniature perfection -
Small but long from head to tip,
thin back legs stretched out
with all hop gone.
What river carried him so far from home?
From what stream or Arun water
did he slip?
He was an unexpected sailor
to be seen at sunset on a beach;
like one who went with Ulysses to seek
for Ithaca, and found himself
flung overboard
when all the winds blew free.
To me he was
a gift; a cameo
complete in detail; so utterly
a frog.
I left him in his beauty on the sand,
waiting for the tide to turn
and drift him
to some other beach.
Cut off from the everyday world by water.
This year, a space, in the darkness of trees
on the other side of this river bank.
A space defined
by the thinning of bulrushes, less
willow hang, hedges
cut back -
A thickness of light in this liquid air;
green shadow low
in the river.
Empty fields
are culled of their cattle;
cow pats, droppings of earlier seasons,
brittle in mud.
A dead fish floats down stream
like the dregs
of a Ganges blossom;
a pale half moon, inflated
by gas, it quickens, tumbling
over the weir, spins like a cross bow arched
in full tension; sinks
into foam.
In a field nearby, de Montfort's men
like herds were cornered and killed.
On this stretch of the Avon are traps
for eels and mink.