by John Grey

He lived so close to the cypress swamp,
the howls, the screeches, the thrashings, of death
were as common as bird song.

From the deep bass notes of day
to the coffin stillness of night,
the humid air could not quite smother
the inevitable death throes.

Could be the squeal of a mouse
in a cottonmouth’s jaw.
a muskrat grabbed by a bobcat,
or an unwitting anhinga,
drying on a log,
suddenly snapped up by a gator.

Most afternoons,
he’d sit on the edge of the old abandoned bridge,
drop a line into the water.
The catch was usually plentiful.
The fish didn’t scream
but he was sure they knew the feeling.

1 thought on “SWAMPIE

  1. It’s a dog-eat-dog swamp, and we’re wearing gator bait thongs. Often the state of the world makes me ponder upon “what is natural?”, right and wrong, and how so much pain and suffering can prevail. I read the swamp in the poem as being a microcosm of the world. Maybe I should just enjoy, or stare aghast, at the treacherous beauty of the swamp. After all, everything is a microcosm. Lol. Thx for sharing.

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