Swamp Thing

Cotton grass bows to the chill wind,
as it sweeps across the marshland.
Birch trees and reed and heather plants,
in small groups fill up the scenery.

There is something in the air.
Not only the twittering of birds,
or the cracking noise of branches but,
a stench as out of a thousand pits.
 
The bog whispers in strange tongues,
as a gurgling and wailing echoes around.
Something persistently asks for admittance,
something proclaims its arrival in this realm.

And as the mire begins to curve,
the serenade of the birds fades away.
From the blackest, abysmal depths,
something is born into this world.

Slick falls from the blackish-brown body,
as it sets the first feet on firm ground.
And a slight, monotonous noise appears,
as a coat of blowflies knits itself around...
...the swamp thing.