Monday, August 24, 2015

The Water Table

A horizon claps asunder
Torn by drench, then by torrent 
Only the drunken scent
Of slate blue steeped in aquarelle 
Bears sweet, sweaty memorial 
To what quickens and starts 
by furious exhibition.

Will it marry and bind us
To these fungal wetlands, this murk of  kettle pond
Our soupy, primordial diaspora?

Or will it cordon, wrap around the bog and carry us off
To summer  hope, melting on a stick 
The hint of September, the frugal crackle 
How fickle this fine drawn sliver!

Soon  the marsh comes for us again
With sickly sunlight and sloe fog
Reclaiming the land, the haze, our brittle faith gone with it
Leaving damp footprints in its wake.

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