RICHARD MUIRHEAD: The Tadpole

T H E T A D P O L E

Solitary and sluggish,
at the bottom of a pool in Sir Cuthburt`s estate
his manse,crumbling and overgrown with weeds,
surrounded by Irish republicans,
eager for vengeance,justice.
The tadpole waits.

All of those rebels, battle hardened,
faces set against the wind, like flint,
except for Seamus,eighteen, drafted into weapons,
reluctantly: this cutting cruelly
against his sweeter nature.

Instead of bullets he sees birds,
besides bayonets, he breathes butterflies,
trembling, he dreams tadpoles.

The legendary Tralee golden tadpole (c.1920)
at least legendary since Seamus heard the craic about it three weeks ago around
the fire one night at the Green Flag.
Now, in the midst of explosions
he dives for shelter behind a wall of flint and stumbles across
the dense lead coloured surface of a pond,
simultaeneously glimpsing a yellow-golden flash
of tail which fires up in Seamus all the joys of discovery and life.

One amber coloured tadpole
and Seamus the only survivors of
Sir Cuthburt`s friends in the
Black and Tans militia.

Ninety years later in a bottle in
the Green Flag, the tadpole lies.
I challenge you adventurers and dreamers-go find it and on
finding it,dream!

© Richard Muirhead