Reflections on the puddle of life

So, I haven't blogged in a while because, well, to be honest I haven't really got much to say. I've been going through a writing 'rough patch' where all of a sudden I just don't understand poetry, and it's not been working for me. So instead I have been reading. I've just finished the most wonderful book called if nobody speaks of remarkable things by Jon Mcgregor, and I've had the pleasure of discovering the most wonderful poet Jean Sprackland, to whom I owe the poem below. Well, to her, and to my daughter who is my little frog.

Playing Frogs

She is playing frogs in the long grass,
rippling the reedy sea with a series of
jerky bobs

and dips.

I see her;
bubbling carefree,
blonde hair splashing a path
that catches sunlight like broken water.

If I followed it I would find her hunkered
against the ground, stained
every shade from green to brown,
all knees and jutting elbows,

and I’d watch her, as she watches creatures
weave amongst the grass,
greeting them broadly with a throaty croak:

‘Ribbit’ to bees in their striped pajamas,
‘Ribbit’ to beetles like pebbles dropped in water,
‘Ribbit’ to butterflies skimming the breeze.

Remembering how I saw her for the first time.

How nerves, like the ultrasound,
pressed into my belly.
How I stared into the murky screen,
sensing movement
swimming just below the surface.
The nurse pointing out details
vague as smoke,
an arm,
a questioning spinal curl,
crossed legs, splayed fingers,
a fast shuttered heartbeat,
two flooded lungs like wide eyes
staring back at me.

How for days afterwards I breathed more deeply.

Now she cocks a curious eye
towards the pond, still as stone.
A pond skater grapples the surface.

I watch, breathless, as she leaps.