The dead froglet
Deep down, within an old clay pot,
I found lying there, long since dead,
The grey mummified skin of what
Seemed to be a desiccated
Little frog. It must have fallen
In so many long months ago.
To lose a life barely begun.
Whose design is it to forego
A life so cruelly laid aside
That no-one ever looked upon?
And although I have tried and tried
I can't forget your skeleton.
* * *
Immured by one sheer and round rampart side.
What mystification? And for how long
Did you leap and clamber before you died?
Tired out, dried out, from going on and on.
We do not know whether you suffer pain;
Nor have any concept of how frogs thrive.
Do you persevere and go on again?
Testing your hurt in order to survive.
But still I have your tiny dried and crossed
Out gossamer paper shroud; in its way,
As beautiful and frail as sun-glanced frost.
I grieve still for this wee sepulchre grey.
© RM Meyer
Winswell Water, July 2018
