The Swamp Tendrils hang Over the small, flat water, only cobbled By specks of tiny weed, Hundreds. Yet hardly water, More a potion than a pond, Hidden here amongst the thorns That guard where mystery dwells. The surface jigsaws many shades Dark slate greys, near-blacks, Streaks of green lie suspended underneath, With lines of stark brown, shrouded. What can be seen of the deepest parts Is darker still, lifeless shadows held below; Where hidden creatures barely breathe In their den-swamp. And tender inquisition peeps in, Spies with young, bright eyes, Quietly watching through the prickly trees, Then backs away and quietly leaves The swamp, all as it was.