THE HAMPSTEAD HEATH TOAD

For Roger Deakin

It was one of those

beautiful

English summer nights.

The lilac shimmer of silent

lakes.

The whisper of ghost fox

through your heartbeat.

But the toad in the hand

stank real.

Stank through his palpitating

skin.

Stank of fear.

Is the fabled hallucinogenic

touch of toads

just as Macbeth

witnessed

a hypnotising snare

of toxic apparition?

What thrilling doors of perception

open

to the musky ooze

of panting paralysed

terror?

Of course

intoxicated on moonshine

you wanted

and will always want

the toad

to calm down

smell sweet

and give up his phantasmagorical

secrets

generously.

But the toad in the hand

protected himself.

The toad in the hand

stank real.