Though the fens exist only in old maps,
Having been drained to make some barracks,
I can remember cutting-through on my way,
Up to Johnston’s house on Grey Turnpike.
We used to travel along a muddy road,
By a slope of standing pines and a stream,
Laughing at butterflies in April sun,
Our boots splashed water by a low bridge.
In the papery, still and silent reeds,
Crocodiles ventured to sleep. We turned
To Grey Turnpike, then a rough, rocky climb,
Up the opposite slope of whippoorwills.
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