The Marsh

The sun rising above the horizon
Folding the quilt of mist
That covers the slumbering ground,
Folding it away, into silence.
The moon weeps, hanging
From a golden thread,
Slowly descending
Into the darkness
Of yesterday.
A beautiful Oak
Reigns supreme, alone;
Standing tall in a tangle
Of sinuous shadows,
A bruised reflection
Of an ancient druid temple,
Lost to the rising sunís
Forgotten worship.
Silence broken by lifeís
Rejoicing sounds
Heralding the coming day;
Faint whispers of wind
On rustling grass.
Amphibious moans
Of anticipation.
Swooning melodies
Of cricketing songs.
And the melodious cries
Of bird in blushed sky,
As the sound of a stream's
Rippling mantra
Fades into
The coming
Day.


© 2000 Jim Cain
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