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Poem

Trolls or Frogs

It has been raining for days, fine gentle precipitation and 
the sun ravaged ground, where I walk among olive trees,
has turned deep green hiding gray stones in a verdant 
blanket of love. It is like a second spring minus a hot sun,
a respite before the real winter sets in. A few big frogs 
cross my path it appears they wear black woolly coats, but
perhaps I’m mistaken, they could be tiny trolls only seen 
by a privileged few. They live under the stones and since 
they do not read or have computers I wonder how they 
spend time. What did I do before computers and the lure
of the internet? I did read hundreds of novels, but I have
little patience for long books now. But I do read poetry,
mainly written by the not so famous. The landscape smells 
new and fragrant, like it has had a bath and is half asleep. 
The ground is soft as a carpet in a luxury hotel, so I have to 
try walking lightly and not upset new plants. Deep silence 
except from a silky murmour, I think it is stones talking. 
The light is fading; time to go home light the fire, switch on 
the computer read and see how the world is getting along. 
The frogs, or trolls, can jolly look after themselves, but 
I remember eating frog legs in Alabama... tasted like chicken.

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