Coins in The Peat

I’m lying in the marsh,
I’m sinking in the peat,
I’m dying in the dark,
just as the cold
begins to creep.

My coins, a day since earned,
ensured the brigands’ frowns
curled up at the corners,
and wicked, they
began to sneak.

Rusted knife, wooden rake,
I fought hard. My hard life
was worth more than the coins
those old bastards
could hope to take.

Two men down, one left, a
rusted knife knows its role,
a broken rake makes holes
like Roman spears
on Golgotha.

I’m lying in the marsh,
I’m sinking in the peat,
I’m crying in the dark,
but those three men
died before me.

“Maggie, I tried to make it home,
but these men have killed me.
The wind will whistle
and you will feel alone,
but remember my love,
so far beneath,
in my cold bed
of peat,
concealed.”


©️ Obol, 2020.

3 thoughts on “Coins in The Peat

  1. This very much feels like a Roger Waters poem in its amazing ability to tell a story with excellent imagery with so few words.

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