Homework W/E 27/3/18 'The Song Of The Frogs'
Posted: Tue Mar 13, 2018 3:28 pm
True Story
A bit too involved for homework Maureen – I’ve only managed the bones of the story really.
The Song Of The frogs
The old camp was a welcome sight with summer still now at its height,
this scrawny bunch of mulga trees at least would offer filtered shade
No greenhouse signs out this way yet; more droughts are likely what we’ll get;
they’re mostly sceptics out this way, from all the comments I hear made.
This arid place I know it well, there’s little shade and hot as hell,
The only life you see out here, are flies and ants, some lizards too.
The grounds as hard as concrete now yet scattered trees survive somehow,
you’d wonder why my wife and I still come as often as we do.
The weather man had promised rain; a promise often made in vain
and looked unlikely to come true with noonday skies still clear and blue.
There’s not a single cloud in view, which shows just what the experts knew,
yet still I glanced towards northwest in hope, as knowing bushies do.
At dusk while dragging in a log, I could have sworn I heard a frog;
impossible I told myself, a frog can’t live in this baked ground.
It hadn’t rained since months before, and even then, a drop, no more;
but then I heard that frog again, soon joined by others all around.
Then like a choir they had sung, sang in their croaking frog like tongue,
they sung for rain of that I’m sure to save them from their present plight.
Their songs were pleasing on our ears; the first time sung I’m sure for years
and echoed through the stillness of a dark and balmy outback night.
Then serenaded by their song we slept through croaks still loud and strong,
till woken by the patter of the first few drops of precious rain.
No doubt the frogs had sensed this change with mating rights to soon arrange,
for many years would likely pass, before the frogs would sing again.
© T.E. Piggott
A bit too involved for homework Maureen – I’ve only managed the bones of the story really.
The Song Of The frogs
The old camp was a welcome sight with summer still now at its height,
this scrawny bunch of mulga trees at least would offer filtered shade
No greenhouse signs out this way yet; more droughts are likely what we’ll get;
they’re mostly sceptics out this way, from all the comments I hear made.
This arid place I know it well, there’s little shade and hot as hell,
The only life you see out here, are flies and ants, some lizards too.
The grounds as hard as concrete now yet scattered trees survive somehow,
you’d wonder why my wife and I still come as often as we do.
The weather man had promised rain; a promise often made in vain
and looked unlikely to come true with noonday skies still clear and blue.
There’s not a single cloud in view, which shows just what the experts knew,
yet still I glanced towards northwest in hope, as knowing bushies do.
At dusk while dragging in a log, I could have sworn I heard a frog;
impossible I told myself, a frog can’t live in this baked ground.
It hadn’t rained since months before, and even then, a drop, no more;
but then I heard that frog again, soon joined by others all around.
Then like a choir they had sung, sang in their croaking frog like tongue,
they sung for rain of that I’m sure to save them from their present plight.
Their songs were pleasing on our ears; the first time sung I’m sure for years
and echoed through the stillness of a dark and balmy outback night.
Then serenaded by their song we slept through croaks still loud and strong,
till woken by the patter of the first few drops of precious rain.
No doubt the frogs had sensed this change with mating rights to soon arrange,
for many years would likely pass, before the frogs would sing again.
© T.E. Piggott