In the pools of the marsh;
In the filth and the reeds;
Broken by ripples;
Intermingled with weeds;
Just under the surface;
Of the grey water pond;
Are the spirits of bodies;
Long since have gone.
Their faces are pale;
Grim and noble, but sad.
They’re proud and they’re fair;
But they’re rotting and dead.
In the bog ‘neath the mountains;
Only coming to view when the candles are lit;
Each staring back;
At what’s staring at it.
They lie their together;
Men women and child;
With no hope of escape;
Of release or exile.
Damned to the waters;
So dark and so cold;
Hidden away;
Tucked in among the much and the mold.
The dead marshes know;
You don’t come here at night;
With your torches in hand;
And your candles to light;
And you don’t catch the eye;
Of the marsh peoples’ glance;
Certainly not on purpose;
Not even by chance.
They can fool your reflection;
And when you’re least aware;
Looking down’s looking up;
And you’re no longer there.
November 27, 2000
