Frogs Poem by Charl JF Cilliers

Edging the wetlands
by a grove of trees
we hear the first
slop and plap and slug of slimethroats
bubbling musically
three-quarter time.

They buddha on the banks
of steaming mud
their clotting rasps
like pumps run dry.

We are surrounded by
metallic cantonese
cacophonies of smell and sound.

As the moon is shredded
in the branches, our first
glimpse of them: warts
of mud above a watery sheen:
their vacant eyes salivate,
their bellies tremble
as thick lips defecate
plump sounds.

Batteries of grenade-launchers
on the sloping banks volley
them to and fro across the swamp.

At half past ten
the moon goes down
Kerplomp!