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.