The Bittern: a poem by Marc Woodward

29 October 2017 // Poetry

The cows stand dying in the field
sharp hip and shoulder blades revealed.
Who knows from where their sickness comes?
The Drekavac; the Mire-Drum.

Booming from the lonely reed bed
this ghost of the unbaptised dead
looks up toward the rising sun:
The Drekavac; the Mire-Drum.

Some say he drops his dreadful beak
into the marsh before he speaks
to makes the stinking fenny ground
an amplifier for his sound.

Bog-Bumper: shy in tan and dun.
The Drekavac; the Mire-Drum.

*

Marc Woodward on Caught by the River / on Blogspot / on Twitter

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