Smut Creek


This is the creek which has always collected itself.
These are the fibrous bits of thistle.
Nobody fishes here.

That cluster of rushes looks like a genius,
messy hair, bright ideas
shooting off in every direction,

I know exactly what I must do
to be happy. But I can't be bothered.

Tangle of root, cement slab,
oak heaving up
through old foundations.

Ants crawl over slime traced with patterns
of more soggy stems, matted leaves.
I have let this happen.

Creek bed, teach me not to fear tick or snake,
but to watch the water bug with perfect love.
Let me stay here till a busload of biologists

clambers through, numbering me
with the stinging, the succulent,
the creatures who need no forgiveness.


- Robin Morris


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