And now comes my fetch in the mist by the slough
unnoticed by the sheep who eat the bursting sloes.
An unwelcome messenger, my double pale and blue,
to snap the stem that holds my soul and reap what doesn't rot.
I'm an altered, repetitious hag, with just the grave for new,
my breakfast made of river stones and set on plates of ice.
The horse may shed its harness, the ship may shed its crew.
I likewise shed this life entire, and no more question pose,
then--like the laurel root--decay, dissolving where it grew.
for Word Garden Word List #19 (at The Sunday Muse.)
this poem is a "Magic 9" poem, with rhyme scheme aba cad aba, or "abracadabra" minus the two r's.
when laurel grows in a swampy area, or "slough", the roots will rot.