From bridge of sighs I look to where
This man made flooded valley lies.
An eerie place.
Shrouded now in swirling, mists,
The spirits of the past perhaps
From once a gentle landscape,
Fertile, grazed and tilled,
Filled with sights of mortal toil.
A cottage by a church in fields of standing wheat.
A mill and snake like leat.
On callous depths, a guilty mirror face
With sweeping curve of siren smile
Ill at ease, dark and brooding.
Hidden by armies, of glowering trees,
Sullen at this barrier to progress.
Nestles, restless in their
whispering embrace.
Caressed by barely stirring dawn breeze
Glittering wavelets march in unison
Towards the leeward quarter,
Passing beneath the bobbing Mallard, unconcerned.
Toward far banks and muddy shallows,
With gentle slap slap of lapping water.
In startling all white plumage, overhead an egret flaps
Across a window to an agitated sky,
Searching for a place to feed
Along the fringes of the rustling reed.
An angler casts his line and somewhere out of sight
Emerging from the night, sounds of life.
So far and yet so near.
A sense of peace is somehow absent here.
Too many spirits haunt this place, this paradise for fools.
For here, amongst the mud and debris of a town
The wretched come to drown – lost souls
And here for them, the searchers come to seek, and find
Death,in-beauty,of-a-kind.
Copyright Ben Corde 2012
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