Help Us
Unseasonal rain has kept
the small pond
half full of water.
More than a hundred tadpoles
crowd its weedy shallows
which, by now, would normally
be a dried out bed
of sludge cracking
under a hot sun.
They take refuge
in the brown shadows
of their diminishing world,
plump prey for birds.
Still infants and at least
a month away
from becoming frogs,
they are running
out of time.
Their world is shrinking
fast and one by one
they are being taken.
I look on.
‘ Help us. Help us.
Take pity on our innocence ‘.
I can almost hear them cry,
gathered under their flimsy cover
like children
trying to hide from death
falling from the sky.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2023
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