Amongst the amber grass of the marsh

Drifts a slow, sullen, stagnate inlet

Past dead overhanging oaks-gazing harsh,

Apathetically, upon nothing—

Whilst the rain falls on grey plain’s rivulet

And on the surface showers set.


Rain gently falling on both marsh and creek-

Dripping, rippling, circling—as water blurs.

Drizzles that drench all, neither strong nor weak,

Constantly dropping, dripping in the wind

That through the watery sky fades, obscures

The understream of life’s ewer.


Beneath the calm surface fogged with murk

Lies a thick dull green full of muddy sand

Where the lost hopes of forgotten things lurk

In glazed currents that do not reflect

But devour the light concealed from land,

Like a vast, all-consuming hand.


The river waits for the tide unmoving

A tryst trail of time traveling nowhere

A vague dim mirror its path unseeing,

Through which shadows look away distantly,

Self-occupied, self-interested, aware

Of nothing save the sorrow there.


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