Whixall Moss

We would be carried there in a bumpy van
rattling tools in the back. Bends, bends and
more bends. No straight roads to keep things

simple. A vacant land, an aftermath simmer.
Ghostly fog, last breath mist.

Bog cutters been and gone, flat cap,
palm worn, back tethered.

Adders lingered in the alleyway tufts of grass.
Owl echoes plopped in squelchy puddles.
Spongy clumps, unstable steps. Making us
unsafe, weary of a fall. Where the bog will

suck us up. Keep us preserved for a
thousand years. Pickled in our own sweat.
We have drained enough of this land

taking away the blood of its own body.
Before giving it back, though she will say

‘I never gave it to you anyway’

By Gareth Culshaw

Gareth lives in North Wales. He loves the outdoors especially Snowdonia. He is published in various magazines across the U.K. Visit his website here.

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