The nearer I come to the wild marsh land <br />the more I hear red-knobbed coots carolling <br />where a swarm of tiny weavers twitter, <br />rocking and balancing on the long reeds, <br />cheerfully the meandering stream jabbers <br />while it shines in the bright morning light <br />next to the big old hanging willow tree, <br />where a symphony of nature resounds. <br /> <br />Marsh bulrushes rocks plumed in the wind <br />that blows softly through the bushes of sprouts, <br />somewhat blinded by the natural beauty <br />I wander like a child through all the reeds, <br />drops of water jet when wild ducks fly up, <br />with rushes suddenly rocking up and down.<br /><br />Gert Strydom<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-marsh-land/
