Mud

~Kevin Hart I think it is the smell of mangrove mud Caught as you pass Whyte Island, just before The old refinery gets into gear, That you love most, The thick wild stench of that raw mud, oh yes I think you wander there and drink it in On days before those pipes and cylinders Were ever thought, And spend long hours with every slow rich curve As my fat river deepens some and sleeps; You lay right down in it and float away Past squiggly creeks (And yet, at night, I think you want to be Where water threads those seventeen small rocks: We met there, Dark One, all those years ago. You smelled of mud). ~~~~~ Next: Prayer