Tadpoling Parts 1 and 2

part 1 We bend low under over-hanging branches lit by reflected river-light gently shifting. Our boots suck the muddy bank. We wade into clear water the dappled up-light playing on our serious faces. Intent on our task hands plunge. Cold-shocked I gasp. You hold your jar steady. I scoop mine. Triumphant in a shower of icy prisms we hold our prizes aloft, laughing and shouting, water streaming down our arms, jars teeming with tadpoles. Faces pressed close to these underwater worlds, we stand transfixed. Each reflects a small disc of sparkling sky. part 2 April trees rake scudding clouds. Far away farm dogs bark at wind-snatched shouts of bird-nesting boys. Somewhere, a cuckoo calls. In the back garden a blackbird stakes out his territory. Ignoring him the cat purrs, yawning in the sun. While unnoticed on the garden table beside a upturned jar, a sprinkling of flattened tadpoles commas drying in the sun. The bored cat saunters by, her tail held high in the shape of a question mark.