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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?

Poem by Paul Muldoon
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