The Slough

The Slough



The decaying pine boards of his porch
creak beneath the rockers of stained oak
shaped by the hands of his father.
He kills his time there, rocking,


staring deep into the woods
of his grandfather, toward the slough.
For ten years, since he turned seventy,
it’s risen in the basement of his dreams.


The haven of gator and cottonmouth,
it’s harbored for three generations
his clan’s deepest secrets. Late at night,
if he listens hard enough, he can hear


the muffled, steady engine of its rot.
It works its timeless wonders
under still, dark waters. Its film
has already claimed his pale, blue eyes.


Larry D. Thomas


(from The Woodlanders; first published in Louisiana Literature
Posted over on The Texas Poet