THE TAWES GARDEN

 

The old pond, ah! A bullfrog somewhere croaks;

A snakelike rustle shakes the reedy grass.

Three boys about the age of Huck Finn pass

Beneath the overhanging boughs that choke

Each others’ sun and rain, and thickly cloak

My vantage point upon a hillside bench.

Unseen by them, I watch the three lads drench

Their boots and socks (up to their knees they’re soaked)

And slosh about the lily pads; no fear

Of snake or leech in the entangled roots.

I shut my book awhile as they draw near,

Not seeing me though almost at my foot.

A splash, and laughter echoes. Now the guard

Half-heartedly escorts them from the yard.