Margaret Connor
Toad
We might never have met
if I hadn't decided
to re-pot my plants that day.
A brick conveniently loose
with crumbled mortar
is your front door it seems.
I'd no idea it was the way
to a subterranean home
shared by wood lice.
I saw your mottled
flabby grey elastic flesh,
legs comically splayed,
as you squeezed out
with an undulating push
then slowly froze
to gaze at me unblinking -
eyes locked on mine -
before your arduous return.
Later, I eased that brick,
strangely honoured
that you choose to live here.
Poetrymagazines Note: This poem is published in a collection with line drawings called Late Spring by Margaret Connor. It is available to read in the Poetry Library.
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