I have become transfixed by a frogspawn,
in so far as 'transfixed' constituting
counting all the little bodies, dark as night,
moving beneath the surface.
I accept there will only be a handful eventually,
given the raft of ducks that peruse the water and I
accept that ultimately, many will look like dark emeralds
to the heron gliding above.
I realise I have become protective, since sometimes,
far away in my garden, I am sure I hear a hen flap her wings
and my ears prick up like a dog only to find
the neighbour's linen shirt, whipping in the wind.
People come and call them sperms - a remark
I find a little offhand, since, they are in fact
alive, probably know the good algae from the bad
and inhibit a sixth sense for dragonflies waiting in the reeds.
Others arrive with jugs and tupperware, and I
watch the mass migration take place in an instant,
how the exporter always looks into his murky water
with a pride that often seems vain.
Perhaps there is more to this pond
like a proverb inside a fortune cookie.
