I have a basic rule: if a poem makes me cry the first time I read it, it ends up on the TSP. Meg Peacocke’s lovely offering puddled me up. I have loved toads, both literary and real, and I have known how heartbreaking it is to lose that childlike relationship with nature.
Child and Toad
She would lean and reach in
to the hollow root slowly
as far as her elbow
and stroke the toad’s chin
and in the waiting afternoon
he would carry his yellow bulk
out of his place of dark
to throb in the unwanted sun
giving his eyes to light,
his cool pale pads of toes
his mouth lipless and wordless
and the skin of his throat.
If the ancient stump
is there lodged in the bank
of the leafy paddock
where we made our camp,
perhaps he still crouches
breathing secret hours,
days, seasons, years,
still dozes, still watches
the light’s transformation
from his earthy seat
beside the hollow lane.
Hunker down, toad.
She won’t come again.
Hunker down, heart.
Ahhh, those last lines…no tears, but close enough.