What a mess, I confess.
Who is accountable?
The frogs are all numbered.
Is Mankind responsible?
The scraping, the digging,
the outright pillage…
Who is defending their fen,
… their village?
We only see moments
of all the destruction:
The mud, and the muck:
it’s all part of production.
We hear of the heroes
who hide in the shadows,
thoughtfully planning,
contours and water flows.
Reclamation takes time,
big money and skills,
and yet no one sees,
the curated hills.
A beacon of hope,
a labour of love,
a thankless profession
that is misunderstood.
The frogs saw a lot
from the helicopter ride.
We’ll never know,
if it damaged their pride.
A voice for the frogs
still cares for the land.
the builder of fens -
descendants of man.
The agrologist, the road crew,
the experts on water,
the Indigenous elders,
a father, a mother.
Soil experts, the regulator,
the pensive hydrologist,
all working together,
to ensure that the best of us…
are showing up strong
to put back the fen,
that support all the frogs,
to start over again.
Next time you feel
hopeless and lost,
remember the frogs,
And just what they saw.
They saw reclamation:
an art form at best,
putting earth back and
designing the rest.
The frogs are back home,
Hear their cracked, pattern purring?
They are hatching young tadpoles.
I think they stopped worrying.
You see nature’s resilient,
And reminds us to pause.
To work with intention
and grow past our flaws.
©2026 Shannon Carla King
This poem is an original work created entirely by the author through human creativity and effort. No artificial intelligence tools, algorithms, or automated text generators were used in its conception, drafting, or editing. All imagery, language, and ideas are the result of the author’s own imagination and craftsmanship.