Norman MacCaig (1910-1996), that most elegant and sophisticated of modern Scottish poets, can't really have seen himself as an untransformed frog.
But he did have an enthusiasm for amphibians that encompassed toads as well. The magisterial volume of his poems, edited by his son Ewen, is published by Polygon at £19.95.
People have said to me, You seem to like frogs.
They keep jumping into your poems.
I do. I love the way they sit
compact as a cat and as indifferent
to everything but style, like a lady remembering
to keep her knees together. And I love
the elegant way they jump and
the inelegant way they land.
I feel so close to them
I must be froggish myself.
I look in the mirror expecting to see
a fairy-tale Prince.
But no. It's just sprawling me,
and swivelling my eyes around
for the stealthy heron and his stabbing beak.