The purblind toad, a stain of rust
In uncooperative dust,
Is happy now to readjust
His hop-and-stop in stippled shade
Of dahlias where the hose has made
Primordial ooze. Slugs, bugs parade
With flying batons, floats, balloons;
One surfacing pink worm festoons
Himself. Such summer afternoons
Are paradise. The swift unhung
Now flickering amphibian’s tongue
Forks lightning out amid, among.
From: McCord, David, “Afternoon of a Toad” in Poetry, August 1979, p. 281.
(https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=34319)
Date: 1979
By: David Thompson Watson McCord (1897-1997)
From Troubles of The World 