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Within an arid place I wandered on

a path of rocks and sand, and cactus lined,

and wished for forests, and was wont to fawn

o’er any bit of shade that I could find.

And rivers came to mind, and seasides too,

anywhere where the water was replete,

anywhere where the wildlife that grew,

grew out of waters welling at your feet.

That’s when I passed a bog. A horrid place,

but there was water, albeit decayed;

and lush life growing on the water’s face

held life beneath its little bit of shade.

Few want it, save perhaps the fly or frog,

but traipsing deserts made me love that bog.