The Marshes

The Marshes
by Theodora Goss

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.

(The image is Marshland by W. Menzies Gibbs.)

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