The Silent Guardian

He had no one with whom to talk, or converse
   about the sky.
He saw no other loneliness..saw
   no one passing by.
The dusk was leaning, to settle,
   and bringing with it, the dark.
The pond nestled together, how softly
    at the last call of the lark.

The pad of lily on which he sat,
    was huge and pretty,
       he thought.
But attractive or not,
    he said aloud,
"For what is this confinement wrought"?
 
Where in hide, the sharing inhabitants
       who through the day did chase..
Around and under the marshes green,
        appearing in every place?
Shouting their greetings to him,
     and showing the life they knew.
All departed, but he,
      this lonely one,
         deadened by an aura
             of blue.

The moon dipped and grasped
     the branches
        of the Cypress tall
            on the bank.
Slowing to glare briefly,
      in his view,
         and
           evicting the sun as it sank.

He attempted recalling the day near past,
    and the events he witnessed there.
He wanted to speak.
     to tell them all,
          to enter his loneliness and share.
But not a soul would stir,
      and soon, he realized
         what he must try.
To sit couched in his watery parlor,
        and croak
           his mournful cry.

For everyone knows, and he full well,
     that a frog must sound
         at night.
During the day, when outsiders revel,
    this introvert shuns the light.

So be it little 'acqua-friend',
   the task at hand
     is your own.
Sing through the night,
    your throaty rasps,
         and
             beacon the wanderer home.

Take command of the job
    entrusted to you...
      'night watchman', on the pond.
Guard well the others,
      who
        in sleep  now rest,
           and to the slightest call,
              respond.

Relaxed and haunched, you observe
     the dark,
         and
            the concentric ripples of the leaf.
As you notice the evening's color,
       and
         the moss laid low,
           in an even sheaf.

Vanishing slowly, the night wanes on,
     and soon
        your chore will be through.
           A few
             bleats from your position...
               missing not one thing, or two.

Awaiting the blaze of morning's light,
      Your tired torso can subtract
         itself
   from the ordeal of dark.
             Upheld,
               is your end of the pact.

So rest O' weary guardian of these,
    who singularly greet you
          this morn'.
In their way,
          thanking you for your help
             and knowing
      your spirit. Still untorn.

The day shall pass, and the heated air
      will
        crisp the living  to a roast. But the evening
           will bring,
               a cooling sight
                   of
                      the 'Watchman', back at his post.

R. Martin Trout
© August, 1962

Midi Title : Best I Can Do