I blundered
upon a troop of toads:
not a knot; not one
wore another like a rucksack –
they seemed to be quite self-contained.
Arrested, alert
they faced away from me:
their backs such a vibrant burnt-orange;
I could see their spines and the
warts on their skin;
a synchronicity on the lawn.
There must have been twenty, there might have been more.
Where were they going and
why had they stopped?
Dead leaves from the beech tree, frisked by the wind
landing upright –
an identical tilt
stalk-end half-buried in
the clumps of grass –
or maybe the worms
were pulling them down
down underground
already.
