On the sixth day of war

I am by the gate dragging a green bin

heavy with a February worth of ash.

Frogs squat in streetlight pools.

The closest are crushed

when a car drives past. I lift

survivors towards the village pond

their skins colder than the rain

as if in crept winter while they had slept.

Another and another until all but one

hunker in the grass. This last

even in the bunker of my hand

sings so that my fingers tremble.

Ben Verinder