Croakers

a poem by Roger B Rueda

We hear of croakers that are lost, 

that are buckled, 

that are thinking new judgements, 

there in their fen 

of philology and development,

outlandish to themselves -

or not even bizarre,

but not the same,

green, stinking and kaleidoscopic,

like spells cast by enchantresses 

in fairy tales.

But, here, they are tangible, huge,

throated with caution, 

with foreboding,

the world about them 

bristling with lot in life.

They halt, then jump

into known surroundings – 

the low green of gloom, 

the stiffening shadow of destruction.