Water, Frogs, and God

Good morning God. Just to say that I’ve been meaning to write but I’ve been really busy. You know how it is. There are so many interruptions that take up the time. It’s silly really, the stuff that robs your life, but you were always somewhere in the back of my mind. You do know that don’t you? I did stop for a chat every now and then; I know you always listen, thanks for that, but I will make more time in future. Thank you for waiting.


I want to tell you about a garden that Jane remembers from her childhood. Jane is my sister, but you know that don’t you God. She wandered along pathways between beds of summer flowers; some so tall they towered above her. How tiny she felt as she ventured further into that magical place of aromatic scent and imagination, and then suddenly fearing she was lost when she couldn’t find her way back to the house. If I close my eyes, the heavenly perfume takes my breath away and the humming song of bees is as comforting as honey. Birds singing of how the world began at dawn reminds me how little I know, but laughter from fairies playing hide and seek with butterflies, reminds me not to take myself so seriously, and when the rain falls, a gentle mist, pattering leaves, until a drenching cloud-burst, I am in awe of your celestial orchestra.


Thank you God, for watering the garden.


In my garden there used to be a little waterfall, it trickled down the rockery into the pond.  A stone bird-bath in the middle spilled water from a little fountain spout, it sounded like the tinkle of tiny bells. Young shoots from the pussy willow trailed the water through filtered sunbeams, dragon-flies came to rest a while on lily pads while golden fish sunbathed near the surface.  It was such a peaceful place.


Thank you God, for the water.


I was really sad when the fish disappeared overnight.  We think it must have been a heron though we didn’t see, and soon after that, the fountain and the water pump were removed, to re-line the pond with black plastic. The little waterfall had nothing to do anymore and the pond was silent without a fountain. I don’t know what they did with the water lilies. The garden was invaded too, improvements they said, but something was lost, the elementals were gone, and I couldn’t hear the music or the laughter any more.


Every autumn, falling leaves from overhanging Willow, Ash and Hazel dropped into the water of the empty pond, filling and clogging until it was practically a bog, but you made nature abhor a vacuum, and every year now, hundreds of newts dart in and out of the murky shallows. I don’t know how they got there, but their dance freckles the surface, and the children love to watch them play. The newts soon became tadpoles; they grew strong and were suddenly small frogs, it must have been a worry for you God, as they left the nursery for the dangers of the bigger world beyond, but you must be very proud of those brave little frogs.


Thank you God, for the water, for giving us such a beautiful garden to live in, for all those times when you are always there, even when we’re not looking, and for understanding how hard it is sometimes for us to listen, when all around is so demanding, but don’t worry God, when the frogs return to spawn in the spring, I’ll make sure there is always enough water in the pond.

Thank you God, for making me realise how important water is, for ponds, frogs and everyone.



About maskednative

There is a gazebo at the end of the garden. It overlooks the estuary. When the tide is in, sea water pools around seaweed covered rocks. The sound is peaceful, meditative. I drink an early morning coffee, listen to the birds singing morning songs, watch a spider spin his fragile life between timber beams above my head. Even in the harshest of winters, the rise and fall of tides, sun-light on water, movement of sky, cloud, moon and stars, allows an awareness of nature behind the mask of perceived reality. I offer my words and pictures in celebration and gratitude to God, for allowing me a glimpse behind the mask. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Bio: Teri Flynn was born in Wales of Welsh and Irish Parents. Educated in England, she moved to Co.Waterford, Ireland in 1997 where her Poetry has since appeared in “The Turning Tide” – an anthology of new writing from Co.Waterford. “Southward” The Journal of the Munster Literature Centre and “Imagine” The Tallow Writers Group quarterly review. Her poetry appears in “Sticky Orchard”, a group effort with Alan Garvey, Jim O’Donnell and Anthony O’Neill and grant assisted by Waterford County Council’s Arts Grant Scheme. “Listening To The Grass Grow” with Jim O’Donnell and Anthony O’Neill was published by Edward Power at Rectory press and most recently, in ‘Murmurings’, Remembering Anthony O’Neil, with Jim O’Donnell and Alan Garvey. Her poem Queen Of The Sea was included in the Chesapeake Exhibition at RUH, Bath, 2011. Figurehead Carver, Andy Peters. Photographic display of Ship’s Figurehead Carvings by Richard Sibley – http://www.tallshipsgallery.com A themed display of her oil paintings and poems entitled Cynefin, were on display in Waterford during The Imagine Festival in 2017. Cynefin-pronounced kuh-nev-in is a Welsh word meaning habitat or place. A place where a being feels it ought to live, where nature around you feels right and welcoming.
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