The Question in the Cobweb

THE frog beneath the juniper
warns us where the terrors are.
crouched below a creaking root
grunts of water underfoot.

Draped on a branch above, the crow
croaks a crude judicial No,
forbidding with a beady eye
any wayward wish to fly.

Furtive flowers in flower beds
hear the wind and bend their heads.
A shiver by the river warns
watch for cows with crooked horns.

A rumble in a tumbled cloud
is mumbling of rain aloud.
A hedgehog humping home alone
makes thunder underneath a stone.

The spider with the knitting legs
purls a puzzle round his eggs.
A nimble stilled centipede
worries a secret in a seed.

Waving leaves like windmill sails,
the tallest elms are telling tales.
A rumor in the garrulous grass
plays havoc with the weatherglass.

Somewhere clocks begin to chime;
telling what we think is time,
meanwhile, the sundial on the lawn
is baffled by the falling sun.

The meadow with the mayflower hair
breathes a last question on the air,
while overhead the homing bees
buzz with private mysteries.

And like some last inquisitor,
the frog beneath the juniper,
crouching in a question mark,
croaks his password to the dark.