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.

March 10th

 

A string of pond pearls,

Toad craft coiled in the reed beds,

Weary mothers spawn.

 

Bit of a sensory overload, so many inspiring things to see and hear on the moors. Greater Spotted Woodpeckers competing, drumming out their territories. My first bumblebee of the spring (Deb saw one a few days ago). Daffodils pushing through the earth. More laughing Green woodpeckers. Blossom on the blackthorns. The white cherry blossom in the lane and the ubiquitous birdsong.

But what was most exciting was seeing the toads in the pond. Not just that, but also their spawn. How beautiful. I like this photo as the sky merges into the surface of the pond, but my shadow allows a window into the depths of it, so in my dark reflection, the pretty string of toad spawn.