Poetry

Toads

The spring I turned nine
they took me to the toad pool
a quiet place, queasy with life.

Fresh reeds at the margins
meniscus quilted with skaters
a stream of bubbles beneath the surface.

We had jars and nets for alien nymphs.
The sun was a blind eye
misted like a cataract.

He found one drowned
pale and swollen against the silt
skin peeled in loosed petals,

dared me to touch rosaries of black spawn
festooning the weed.
I reached into cool water then drew back.

A revolving frenzy, a ball of toads,
at the heart a female, gravid with eggs,
a cluster of males clasping her tight.

Jenny Donnison