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Crawling from under the rhubarb leaf
to the edge of the pond,
vegetable garden with the bustle
of weeding and snails dropping
behind me – I was far from the house.
My house on the canal
where the billeted enemy
wore boots – but I was more afraid
of the colour of frogs the colour
of lily pad and the small toad that
flashed over feet in a brown suit:
their throbbing throats and mine.
Beyond grew roses and Russians
were on their knees weeding the strawberry bed.
They might have shared
the secret of the child’s tight-fisted hand,
the torn piece of a silk
parachute. If you saw a friend
not an enemy walk in the neighbourhood,
then you carefully
unfolded two fingers.
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