The Frog


Comes to mind as another small
upheaval
Amongst the rubble.
His eye matches exactly the bubble
In my spirit-level.
I set aside hammer and chisel
And take him on the trowel.

The entire population of Ireland
Springs from a pair left to stand
Overnight in a pond
In the gardens of Trinity College,
Two bottle of wine left there to chill
After the Act of Union.

There is, surely, in this story
A moral. A moral for our times.
What if I put him to my head
And squeezed it out of him,
Like the juice of freshly squeezed limes,
Or a lemon sorbet?


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The Frog