Late on a day in May
When no one else is there,
Tobias comes to smoke his pipe
And take the evening air.

Resting on the soft green moss
He smiles and winks his eye,
Remembering the boggy days
Of springtimes long gone by.


Parfois un soir de printemps
De sa crapaudière,
Tobias vient avec sa pipe
Pour prendre un peu l'air.

Assis sur la douce mousse verte
Il songe tout en fumant,
Aux journées marécageuses
Des beaux saisons d'antan.

After dinner
The Toad would sit
To smoke his pipe
And think a bit.

He would recall
The good old days,
Springtime showers
And morning haze.

'Not long ago
Fine lilies grew,
But now there seem
To be so few.'

He might then gaze
Upon his spouse,
Squeezing into
Their little house.

'Broader perhaps,
But still the same,
The golden voice
 No bird could claim.

But waters pass,
 Old friends have gone.
Tadpoles grow legs,
 Then they move on..'

How thoughtfully
He winks his eye
 Those days gone by.

Laying his pipe
Then by his feet,
He'd close his eyes
And fall asleep.

The toad shed a tear
As he sat on his stool,
Thinking of old times
 When he once went to school.

The tiny tadpole
Would much rather play
Than tediously try
To learn lessons each day.

'There's always tomorrow,'
The small tadpole thought.
'Always tons of time
 For me to be taught.'

The toad blinked and sighed,
Twitching his old toes.
One lesson he'd learnt
Was how quickly time goes.
The last version was published in WRH - The Rainbow alphabet doggerel (T)
Images and doggerel © Mirino (PW). May, 2012

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