October 8th

each storm drop painful
boulders on mottled toad skin
brown-grey, born from clay

I saw a toad crossing the road as I was driving in a heavy and sustained rain shower, it was only a brief moment, reflected in my headlamps. It passed under my wheels (yes, it was safe, from me anyway). I could tell it was a toad as it was walking in that awkward measured way of theirs. It was probably trying to find somewhere to hibernate. In the Spring they’ll make the long walk back to their spawning ground, like they do every year, to breed. Another perilous journey to come after the long sleep.
For my longer narrative poem, check my other blog Storm Toad. It’s a long skinny poem, looks nothing like a toad at all, but I think it has a measured meter about it, the slow plod, plod, plod of the toad's determined walk.