The Muir

The Muir As a child living on a farm during the war had a pond on peatland, the pond’s water was fenny and dark. Slow swimming trout that tasted of mud Swam, near the surface of the pond. My friend and I built a boat with sails, It sunk, I clung to the mast, Peter swam didn’t make it, screamed before being dragged under by something atrocious. The adults came running, they didn’t find Peter, the pond had endless silt, lukewarm infinite, its foundation in the maelstrom of conflicting horrors.