Little pools of peaty water
Played host to psychedelic dragonflies;
Which, like drunken pilots,
Careered from peaty pool to peaty pool.
Other strange little beings
Skated machine-like on the slippy water.
The water was as still as the closing grass was alive.
The smell?
Nice organic death;
Alongside the long-dead water’s slight putridity.
The boys stabbed that still black skin
With sticks that bent in water.
The pools weren’t Narcissus-mirrors.
Too dark, too cloudy, for that.
They did echo back, instead,
Big, black, deformed skulls -
Not angel-faces.
The boys hovered on a minute shore.
Looking, with their microscope eyes,
At the tiny little worlds of tiny little creatures.
All worlds and worlds away
From such city-boys’ knowledge.
They knew, sure, about rats and pigeons.
But naught of the pool-beings swimming, without names,
In the still, black water.
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