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Available for over a year

The frogs are calling. They come out of the pond in a scattering of moonlight. She follows them to the end of the garden. They promise her the whole wide swamp. Under the hawthorn, they teach her how to breathe through skin. Together they lie in the sun, hands folded over their stomachs. She shows them how to stretch and yawn. When she sings to them they croak back. When she hums a lullaby they lie still. She watches how they sleep, eyes open. In the night she practises but when she wakes, the day is red inside her eyelids. She sucks at sap of iris, larvae, snails. She catches flies and caterpillars on her tongue. Now she has become one of them. Now she has become one of them, the Keeper of the Garden says the rules have been broken and she must leave, she has fraternised with frogs, crossed unmarked boundaries. The frogs gather round, croaking, holding their sides, laughing. She says Yes, I have become them. They have become me and we are home. Close your eyes, Keeper, and feel our magnitude. We are this garden, its flowers, ferns and ponds, We are swamp and marsh and all the living cells in sky and soil. We are earthspit, starspawn. You are welcome to leave or stay and live in our abundance.