Terence Dooley
The Mire
We do not go down to the marsh.
It is on someone else’s ground,
waiting, green and dark and silent,
but sometimes it comes up to us,
soaking the lower ground,
so that we could grow rice in it,
if it were hot enough.
I long to go down and visit it,
dark and green and still,
thinking and waiting,
with the black water on it
which does not give back,
but absorbs reflection.
I may go down.
Page(s) 23
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