By the rim an old stone frog with pitted green paint,
Flecking to an undetermined undercoat,
Has squatted here since before we came,
Belching a silent gag at no one’s expense.
A wide mouthed pipe burrows below
The unfinished circumference of wellness.
A shoulder wide passage for some lucky pitch,
The broad tube dives beneath, then L-bends away.
To where today’s boundary wall has interfered,
Slit through this story-map garden Realm, so
Jewelled grains of sunlight carom back up the duct,
Broadcasting rumours of perpendicular egress.