I love water, whether it's a river, a seashore, lake, swamp...whatever. A swamp, or bayou down home, is a great place to have something mysterious happen.
Photo by Donovan Baldwin
THE MUD BAYOU
He was buried there by the mud bayou,
At the bend where the green water curls,
With the swing of a spade,
A half-whispered prayer,
And the tears of a heartbroken girl.
The living splashed on through the water and mud
Past the ghosts of the moss covered trees.
With looks right and left,
And hearts filled with fright,
They waded past old cypress knees.
They feared the cottonmouth, panther, and bear,
They'd heard tales of the Indian tribes,
But one of their number
Cared nothing for peril,
Now widow, but short time a bride.
They left no trace of the way they came,
Nor marks of the way they went,
No record behind
Of the youth in the ground,
Or the reason his life had been spent.
Somewhere in bayous where the green water bends
Lies a man left behind long ago.
Who he was, why he died,
Who prayed, and who wept,
Are the secrets of the mud bayou.
Copyright Donovan Baldwin
Published April 1982 in The Archer, now defunct. (Not my fault, I hope.)
Fort Worth, TX 76123
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