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TED
CAROLAN



SELECTED POEMS



POND PEOPLE



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.




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