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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