The Marshes

 

The marshes call,

the marshes so wild,

all yellow under the moon,

and the small green frogs

raise their heads from the slime

to croak a beckoning tune.

 

The marshes call

with a sibilant voice,

the hiss of settling mire,

and they whisper a promise

that is no promise,

a negative heart’s desire.

 

I answer, alone

while the moon shines on me,

insisting I will not come,

but the night wears away,

and the brain grows weary,

and the heart goes numb.