The Swale
Sarah Wells
Roving feet get suctioned in the swale.
Mud leaches between laces before
you see the depression. The land
rises up in such a way that dips
are unpredictable. The valley
looked drier, but spring rain,
winter melt could not seep deeper
into the earth. These shallow cavities
will always be damp, hollows I dare not
tread, not even during the hottest drought.
Some swales will never drain enough
to step unburdened. I am swallowed,
boots sucking heavy in muck.
My anxious hands quiver for help,
unable to reach down and untie my shoes.