I’m the Old Deceiver, just a sack of toad
insatiably voracious – I love a Latin word –
who even eats his own shed skin
which splits along the seam –
it needs my witch’s fingers
the toes join in as well –
you’d be surprised to see me
as I leave myself behind.
Now however, belly spread
I crouch and wait – for all the world
as if I’m ready for my press-ups
both hands splayed, zipped-up mouth –
red warning eyes have seen it all
through black-out slits. Lots of secrets
I can hold in this capacious Bufo bag
with no constraints – it will stretch
so I just shove stuff in, why anything
that’s small that moves, like caterpillar
slug or snail, beetle, worm or bug –
they don’t expect a tongue like mine.
I am the Old Deceiver after all
taking on the background colour –
a bumpy clod. I like the flavour
of an English word as well.
Who would suspect that toad
had such an unexpected weapon?
And now it’s time for me to move –
excuse my crawl – all part of my deception –
wait till you see me swim, how I’m a
clever climber – while I pretend
I am no more than yet another stone.
I’m the Old Deceiver, just a sack of toad
waiting in his heaviness, unnoticed as a stone
still hungry, ever watchful, ready with my poison –
no harm to you. So go, and leave me all alone.
Richard Westcott (once upon a time a doctor) has had poems pop up in all sorts of places, won a prize here and there, and been listed, commended and highly commended in various competitions (including the Hippocrates, York Mix, Camden Lumen, Plough, and Poetry on the Lake). He won the Poetry Society’s annual Stanza Competition in 2018, judged by Penelope Shuttle, with his poem ‘A Traditional Cure’. A pamphlet, There they live much longer, was published by Indigo Dreams in March 2018, and his blog is at www.richardwestcottspoetry.com
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