Oh swamp thing, I don't blame you for living in your fetid mire. It's so bright and loud out here. In the shadows of your wetland home there is the soft click of cicadas and the deep growls of alligators. The air hardly moves. The frogs blink slow. Time passes but you never really notice it. There are no clocks in the swamp, just the rotation of the pale sun and greasy moon. Clouds of insects hiss as I drop off a bag of cheesy chips at the border of your territory. I know you don't like to be seen or spoken to, but I also know you like to be reminded that we still think about you. You left big footprints on the fields a few years back when you thought the folks in town had forgotten about you. But I hadn't. I was just working away.
In truth I envy you, swamp thing. All the other things in the swamp seem to like you, even when you try to eat them. You don't have to go to work. You spend most of your day sleeping. When you're up and about you make slow inspections of the swamp and spend hours gazing up at a mangrove tree or watching the slow spread of an orange mushroom. You are ponderous, oh swamp thing. You take your time.
I sometimes I wonder what you are. An evolutionary dead-end? An ancient bog deity? An abandoned bio-tech project? Who knows? I don't think it really matters. You are who you are and you stay true to yourself. You make this place special. You make an otherwise dull life, interesting. I think you're great, swamp thing. Enjoy the chips.
Paddy Dobson
1st May 2021