Frogsong in February

 Frogsongs in February

A cold February afternoon and the ponds are, thankfully, silent. A watchful, but frogless, heron took off as I arrived. Friends have seen them taking frogs already this year - from ponds in those warmer garden microclimates "just down the road" but here in this hollow of the hills on the edge of town, the cold still holds them all, frogs, toads and newts, asleep. 

But it IS February and further south and lower down, the frogs have started moving, the Toadwatchers of the Toad Patrols are polishing their boots and filing road closure requests (and getting national headlines!). Here I just hope the cold holds for a few weeks more: too often in recent years, there is a flurry of early wakefulness, and a hasty spawning before March snow or late frosts interrupts everything....

But it IS February and there have been those mornings when I wake up and the world smells full of the promise of frogsong and jellied spawn....

FROGSONG

Gordon MacLellan 

It is March and

This morning held a cold smell of spring

Of frogsong and wonder.

Reflections of blue skies and

Willow trees are

Broken by the weeds that break

The pond’s mirror.

There is movement,

A small turning, splashing

Disturbance,

But there is no-one to see.

The wind across the water

Traces deceptive arrows

And by the far bank,

A bigger movement

Sends a ripple, a wave spreading outwards

But still there is no cause to see,

No culprit to celebrate.

 

The pool settles again,

And me, I rest

Here on the grass, watching.

It is March and

I am still hoping for frogs.

 

NOTES

Frogsong was published as "A Pond in March"in Froglife's Autumn/Winter 2-024 edition of Natterchat

Froglife organises the national Toads on Roads initiative: https://www.froglife.org/what-we-do/toads-on-roads/

Reflections and rotting leaves

 Reflections and Rotting Leaves

It was raining. I sat beside the pond in Gadley Woods and gave up trying to count the raindrops. The pond’s surface is a gray mirror, reflecting precise images. But the water. The water smells. Peering in, it holds little promise for me but that mandarin duck clearly approves, marshalling her double brood - or maybe she is baby-sitting someone else’s – with harsh rattling calls. There are two sizes of ducklings and about 16 in total. I’m impressed: well-behaved children. At my arrival she calls them from across the pond, hectic clockwork toys hurtling across the surface.

 

Other pond moments rise like bloodworms wriggling…..no frogs here, nor tadpoles nor newts. No fish to eat those mosquito larva. But stories wait in those rotting leaves, in the dark water, in the perfect reflections….

A while ago a group of us gathered pond images, our own stories of digging ponds, building ponds, watching ponds...these became the film with the link below

 

When you dig a pond and a robin helps you, watching and picking and taking the worms…when you start again and dig a pond and it fills with water, the first frog that jumps in sends ripples racing across the water. Every ripple is a consequence

 

A kingfisher on a branch watches, measures,

knows the frog is too big for her.

A heron comes, angular, long toes in soft earth,

A heron who will hunt the frog

The air above the pond becomes a territory of dragonflies,

Swallows dig mud from the bank for their nests and in the evening

Bats hawk over the open water in the hope of an early hatching

many thanks to all my pond-y friends and to

the wonderful Buxton Museum and Art Gallery 

for setting the whole thing up in the first place!

Waiting for the frogsong

 

 

 

FROGSONG

Gordon MacLellan 

It is March and

This morning held a cold smell of spring

Of frogsong and wonder.

Reflections of blue skies and

Willow trees are

Broken by the weeds that break

The pond’s mirror.

There is movement,

A small turning, splashing

Disturbance,

But there is no-one to see.

The wind across the water

Traces deceptive arrows

And by the far bank,

A bigger movement

Sends a ripple, a wave spreading outwards

But still there is no cause to see,

No culprit to celebrate.

 

The pool settles again,

And me, I rest

Here on the grass, watching.

It is March and

I am still hoping for frogs.