A pond in springtime

One quiet croak from garden pond,
Spring must be on the way.
Soon more pale throats are swelling too
And calling lustily away.

The pond soon fills with many males,
Each trying harder than the rest
To croak the loudest of them all:
"Come, my love, I am the best".

Slowly, females are aroused.
From under logs and stones they peer.
Plump older ones with thousand eggs
And virgins who were tads last year.

A crawl, a hop, a final plop
Into seething pool she flies.
Thrashing legs as frantic males
Jostle to possess the prize.

If no female comes their way
Sex-mad males will clasp each other,
Confused by instinctive lust.
"Oh sorry chum: you are my brother!"

The tangled frogs create a storm,
Each struggling to clinch a bond.
Fecund, fertile, female frogs
Pour out their eggs into the pond.

Soon the pool is full of spawn.
Now newts come up for air and food
And like a pack of hungry dogs
They devour much of the brood.

Yet some eggs in hidden places
Will grow from little floating blobs.
At first no more than blackish commas,
Then tads, then next year's frogs.