The Bullrush GnasherThere is a river, far from all things, and nearer to no thing by far.
Its only company, the great Willow tree at its edge, sways and mumbles away.
But the tree speaks only of dull and slow matters, interesting only to itself,
so the river is forever sad, its tears splash its steep banks.
As the river weeps its way, through fields of gold and grey,
there is a deep and dank pool, where the current dare not tread.
There, sick lily grows; with thick, course reeds and starving fly traps.
But something else lies in wait there, The Bullrush Gnasher.
Her glazed eyes and black algae hair are all that can be seen of her,
but if you see these at all, it is already too late, I fear.
For if you see her, she has most definitely seen you.
Barely a ripple does she make, as she watches for her next meal.
She loves to prey on fish, relishing eels and birds too.
Her favourite of all is the flesh of man, which she gnaws at for many moons,
letting you rot and bloat under the water, before even taking her first bite of you.
If ever you see two glass eyes in a pool, far from all things, near to none,
run for your life if you value it, and pray she needs no feed,
for the river will help you not, and the Willow will pay you no heed.
The Bullrush Gnasher waits for you even now, there in that pool of green.
100 Heads in 100 Days #76
|The Bullrush Gnasher|
A friend of mine, Paul Hughes, and I used to play a couple of songs at an open mic night many years ago. He sang, I played guitar. He was good, I was never very. I remember being mostly petrified of doing it at the time. I've barely picked up a guitar since. Not out of fear of it, more an acknowledgement of my limits with it. I look back fondly at those times though, but I'd never do it again. NEVER!