Underfoot, the peat sprang back
leaving watery footsteps
behind – there were no greens
or browns, only earth-colours
and moss-colours and a sense
of refuge from the inky pools beyond —
the kelpie-lairs and deeper fathoms
where dwell the ones who never made
the crossing. Ahead,
it shone as if lit by fool’s fire, white
with the coolness of old death,
hollow eyes long vacant, but staring,
knowing now the perils
of the mire. Horns,
regal and incredulous
in passive defeat, hung
with fronds of lichen
in gaudy decoration, the bog
speaking in warning,
in reclamation.