The Mud Castle
A narrative poem.
Old fish pond. So small,
She forgets to ebb and swell:
Moon-touched, but not moved.
Muddy shore, not sand:
I should build a mud castle -
Her tides are so small.
Water won’t rise here:
Her bank, never kissed high tide -
Moon above, no waves.
Clay, so thick — pond silt.
Dig: sticky, black and heavy.
Dug down, built upwards.
Comfort found: Kneeling
To knead water and pond muck -
Dirty work, so clean.
Earth walls rise, hands wet -
And structure formed, low and safe:
Bulwark and haven.
Dawn will come, drying:
Cracks will surface, to weaken.
The sun consumes all.
Darkness brings dark things:
Muskrats burrow, with fierce will -
The dark takes us all.
Weeping skies to wash:
Time will wash away good works -
As well, our flawed ones.
But never the tides.
Old small pond: Moon holds no sway.
Castle will not drown.
MaggotsX @ 02.15.2023
John R. Hampton
