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by Don1


Born in a puddle on the damp eastern bank 
Of the great western railway where the atmosphere stank 
Of sulphurous substances and rotting pulp 
An oily young frog made his way to the swamp.


Driven by instinct and phenomenal strength 

He climbed over ballast and was blackened the length 

Of his slick slimy body by old engine oil  

Discarded by locos polluting the soil.



Intuitively aware of the dangers ahead 

And of the moribund nature of paths that are tread 

By fierce deadly predators lying in wait 

The morphoun tadpole slithered like bait.



More like a newt than a fully formed frog 

And almost all spent by the arduous slog  

Of over and under the stones and the rails  

He made it across to the western swamp trail.



Crawling through undergrowth mulchy and dense 

Barely alert to the dark and immense  

Spider fly waiting with legs akimbo 

Ready to strike when our hero went slow.



But nearing the base of the great monster’s leg 

The young frog’s true senses filled him with dread  

And he dashed below a cluster of leaves 

Escaping the thrust of the spider fly’s spears.



Deep in the darkness he sensed again  

The presence of some other creature and then 

Bounded in the path of another young frog 

And together they left in search of the bog.



Not far to go then they came into view 

Of a menacing fincher that eyed up the two  

Young amphibians climbing and tumbling down 

As they splashed into water and mud thick and brown.



The laughed and they played and splashed, how they splashed 

And they knew that their journey was over at last 

They found the safe haven their travels were for 

The true pond of their ancestors, family and more.



Safe from the perils of nature at last  

The brave little froglets forgot what had passed  

And looked forward to living and playing and fun 

In the swampy bog pond at the end of the run.



© Don1 2011


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