Up hill and dale, round fell to squelching bog,
from sodden turf to rotten dough soft log.
I traipse in search of mist free verge.
Through brackish trickle or
a scrubby brush, and scratch or tickle
seeking to eventually emerge.
To breathe in fog that catches my mirth,
tis stank and fetid of rancid earth.
To squelch and stare at careless the moon,
and start in fright at the eerie loon.
It seems to me to never end,
no turn in sight no looming bend.
I see no edge to the seeping land,
well fed micro carrion seem to lead my hand.
I may as well relax and await the dawn,
make sense in light of this undulating lawn.
It seems not far though falsely pale,
This ill thought trip through hill, and dale.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
This is for anyone who has taken a wrong turn and kept going..