This poem I thought of on a gloomy walk in fall through a swamp. At the time, we had just moved into a house where the previous owner died, so that what sort of on my mind.


Gentle rains drip
upon the black rippling way
fingers of vegetated decay hang
through the bleak watery-glade
rushes whip in the un-seen stream
and bog birches brood over sprinklings of green
Breaching sticks are imbibed by the deadly mosses
and thick barbs of blackberry wind over long-dead copses
Upon that black glides down
one duck of a gentle grey
feathers un-wet in the hour-less way
gently guiding, duck feet kicking
a black bird, red-hearted, calls—shrieking
calling me back to wakeful-day,
and along I go, mumbling, “There is peace in the glade,
there is peace in the glade,
an eye-closing sleep of the gentlest fare
how rare it is to find such an open cairn,
aim I, with time then, to find the king of all rests here
within the blackness of her nests.”