Marshland

There’s a marshland where I come from – Wet and slowly dying as aren’t we all and yet, Still full of life like flying Egrets and alligators roaming ‘round Down in the bowels of this bog And that’s not all. Pink and purple lilies and fern grow tall With bees buzzing, singing, pollinating Wildflowers here and there And other unseen forces in the air. Impossible To describe them all, however, As they may be partly mystical and partly weather. Causing me to sit and daydream in this Misty marshland waste, waiting For summer to end and winter To take its place.