Sunday, 30 November 2014

Swamp.

The swamp is all around.
In the still, mirrored water
Float the reflections of tussock and branch.
Beneath its stillness mud grips and sucks.
Can it draw so deeply down
That to its mire you must surrender and drown?
Body and spirit begin to tire
From the struggle through heavy mire.
Is this the place to stop and wait,
To quietly surrender to chance and fate?

But look, even in the deepest swamp
There is a tussock here and there,
A branch partly submerged,
A rock just beneath the surface,
A fallen tree to clamber along,
And there, in the distance,
Like an adrenalin surge of hope,
Is a rise of land clearly above the mud

So clamber, hop, struggle and climb,
Pull your feet clear with a slurping suck,
Believing that high and firmer ground,
That for which the struggling heart longs,
Will surely soon be found,

Knowing that somewhere the sun shines
In a beautiful blue cathedral vault,
Somewhere people laugh and sing,
Somewhere is music playing,
Somewhere is the bright sound of children,
Somewhere lovers kiss,
Walk hand in hand
On ground that is joyously high above
The swamp's deep, disturbing, miry suck.

No comments:

Post a comment