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Friday 29 March 2019

Peaty Moor-pools in the Summer



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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