Swamp

Swamp’s Whisper

In the hush of twilight’s amber gleam,
Where reeds stand guard in muted green,
The swamp exhales a slow, deep sigh—
A murky mirror of the sky.

Moss‑soft banks give way to still,
Black‑water pools that never fill,
Dragonflies on amber wings
Trace silver loops on silvery strings.

A heron stalks, a patient ghost,
Its long neck bends the fading coast,
While frogs in chorus, low and bland,
Croon lullabies to sodden land.

Here time is thick as peat and loam,
Each breath a secret, soft as foam—
The swamp, a quiet, patient art,
Holds England’s wild, unspoken heart.