Playing Frogs
She is playing frogs in the long grass,
rippling the reedy sea with a series of
jerky bobs
and dips.
I see her;
bubbling carefree,
blonde hair splashing a path
that catches the sun like broken water.
If I followed it I would find her hunkered
against the ground, stained
every shade from green to brown,
all knees and jutting elbows,
and I’d watch her, as she watches creatures
weave amongst the grass,
greeting them broadly with a throaty croak:
‘Ribbit’ to bees in their striped pyjamas,
‘Ribbit’ to beetles like pebbles dropped in water,
‘Ribbit’ to butterflies skimming the breeze.
Remembering how I saw her for the first time.
How nerves, like the ultrasound,
pressed into my belly.
How I stared into the murky screen,
sensing movement
swimming just below the surface.
The nurse pointing out details
vague as smoke,
an arm,
a questioning spinal curl,
crossed legs, splayed fingers
a fast shuttered heartbeat,
two flooded lungs like wide eyes
staring back at me.
How for days afterwards I breathed more deeply.
Now she cocks a curious eye
towards the pond, still as stone.
A dragonfly grapples the surface.
I watch, breathless, as she leaps.