A diamond tip shard
         Of flint, a jade arrowhead
flirted under the saffron
         trumpets of courgette
flowers just beyond my
         brogue’s print on dark
rotted soil; hatched
         from the ragged spawn
a cold spring let into
         our pond; now amphibious,
lunged, miniature;
         perfect the way small
things are. I thought
         I’d catch it for you, open
my fist – my scrolled
         hand like parchment,
like my father’s now –
         show it you to marvel
at. Not a hope: it’s gone
         again, a tiny flickering
miracle, a gleam of eye-
         shine, a dwarf god growing
into lordship of its world,
         peering at thunder clouds,
darkly immanent, blinking
         away raindrops that slide
from leaf hairs, angelica
         green zucchini stems,
magnifying everything.