Marshland

Wind wallops the reeds across the wide
grey water. There is nothing here to stop
its onslaught, nothing to make its rage
die down. These are the flat lands, peat and poor
grey sand in equal measure, soggy, soft,
without a backbone. Here no rocks will show
through tough, coarse heather, here no snow remains
high on the hills. The faintest rise is far
removed from these pale fields where life transpires
to be as flat, as even. Measured, cold,
the morning opens, and the evening shuts –
this is no place to be. The ragged clouds
hang low above the uneventful soil
that harbours no surprises, heights or lows
and nothing stirs except the wind's turmoil.