Celebration of the Green Tree-Frog

The small frog squats at night

in the track of the sliding door,

hunched below the level of the glass.

Lamplight turns him brown;

his eyes are amber beads.

He is carved stone

watching the moths.

They flutter above him,

little brown leaves

falling against the flywire

and twirling off.

In daylight the frog is green,

sticky and shiny with big webbed feet,

transparent as a leaf.

On top of the water tank

in the gap between pipe and filter,

just where the rain spills in,

he rests and celebrates.

When storms lash and the pipe gushes,

we hear from his tiny throat

a pulsing, continuous drum-beat

heavy and huge and deep.

                              

19/2/96 - 21/8/00

Resurrecting this old poem because I had occasion to post this photo in a facebook group today. This pottery frog was given to me by a friend in Texas in 2006, after he heard me recite the poem. (It looks more blue than green in the photo, but that's a trick of the camera.)

Of course, the Aussie ones look more like this. 

Sharing at Tuesday Platform, 'imaginary garden with real toads'.