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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.

The Swamp  

by Josh Coe

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