in the marshland

in the marshland
the wet soaks fifty feet out from any depth of water
the whole perimeter soaked into a muddy floor
in the chill our skin is a ruddy red and the earth is a ruddy brown
the dirt hard on the approach and then giving way into a sloppy surface
it sucks at the bottom of our shoes
the landscape is wasted in a way that would be unremarkable
except that it is so desolate
and our presence could be the first to break its loneliness in years
this is what is remarkable, the discovery of this land
that it’s colors and contours are ours to name
we will never dip our feet in the water, the shade of a fever, a contagious sickness ready to spread
but the shore, the slope where the trees grow sparse enough to pass through holding hands side by side
this is our land, to conquer and make our own, its history will be our secret meetings
the long bent stalks at the water’s edge are the color our memories,
are whatever color we remember, when we remember this
in our futures, which will be separate, surely
this is not the story that begins a long history, one that will be imparted to others, couples, children
this is the whole of our story, the afternoons and evenings here in this clearing,
the long walk towards and returning,
a walk too long for conversation to fill entirely, there will always be silence
that silence, or near silence,
the light rasping of wind through nearly bare trees,
tiny branches scraping against each other in the heights above,
the rustle of leaves, perhaps a lap of water, more imagined than real,
this the music and soundtrack of this memory
the memory which will only be conjured at random in the future,
bringing a light smile, but no further emotion
there is little substance to these outings