The Webbed Wanderer
A whisper in the muddy reeds,
Where quiet, cool, and shade succeeds,
The smallest of our water-kin,
With spotted throat and amber skin.
When spring breathes warm across the shire,
The male puts on his best attire:
Dark-webbed hind feet, a thread-like tail,
A crest that shimmers, sleek and pale.
He swims in arcs of emerald light,
A master of the pond by night,
Then leaves the shallows, damp and shy,
Beneath the Gloucestershire sky.
Deep in the woodpile's shadowed maze,
He slumbers out the summer days,
A tiny jewel, moss-bejew’d
The hidden, wild and palmate newt.
Art’ I’gence 2026