Lost in an English Bog
Now all that’s left is in a fog
Covered up, hidden in the dark
Areas of heart, the confused
Places of where the madness starts.
Lost in some swampy English bog
The going is slow, the course unknown,
Lefts are rights confused in ice mud,
A place of fear that is un-shown.
A few barren trees, a bramble
Or two, a stone near the weeping
Willow that cries over a stream
When it rains in the endless sinking.
A small hope in a small owl
Shows up as a spirit guide.
Which way is out? Where is the light?
A time when true guides never hide.
It hops and darts from tree to stone,
It flies and floats and holds on deep,
A hope in wings above the mud,
My eyes fear down but owl light keeps.
Kyle McHale 2012
Kyle McHale 