Bog
Sun set over the western tors,
mist rose in the valley,
far to go.
The path more difficult,
spread out, but posts
still led the way.
Hard tussocks bent and twisted
in the moss as above grew
darker, all now grey.
A rip,
earth fell,
a thousand serpents,
clutch freezing belly,
earth bears down on thighs,
push down,
go down,
elbows on moss,
feel scream,
pause, slowly sink,
hard fingers pull ankles
legs wooden,
push mud from face,
gulp air,
reach out
A cool hand takes mine,
I suck in the hard cold air,
rise from the mire
held by that gentle grip
cool mist on my face,
see the stars,
all is now.
© Paul McCombie 2005