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.