Friday, January 11, 2019

The Marsh by W. D. Snodgrass

The Marsh
 
Swampstrife and spatterdock
     lull in the heavy waters;
some thirty little frogs
     spring with each step you walk;
a fish’s belly glitters
     tangled by rotting logs.
 
Over near the grey rocks
     muskrats dip and circle
Out of his rim of ooze
     a silt-black pond snail walks
inverted on the surface
     toward what food he may choose.
 
You look up; while you walk
     the sun bobs and is snarled
in the enclosing weir
     of trees, in their dead stalks.
Stick in the mud, old heart,
     what are you doing here?

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.