Will O' The Wisp, Page 2 Of 2 Poem by John Bliven Morin

“Come-to-me, ” they say, “see?
they’re only just ahead. Ignore
the near deep throated, bellowing
of the old bull gator’s roar, ”

“Ignore the splash and croaking
in the darkness of the frog
as he seeks a long-lost lover
o’er the quicksand of the bog.”

Now minutes pass; the lights have gone,
they search the swamp in vain;
Without the lights to guide them,
Might as well head home again.

“Which way, Hoke, did we come?
From there, by the fallen tree,
or past the cypress to the right;
It looks the same to me.”

“No, the current’s turned us ‘round,
We came from over there,
where the owl sits on the cypress knee...
Maybe not, but where? ”

Back at the fishing camp at dawn,
A family searched for their two boys;
The Sheriffs in their motor boat
Found nothing but their motor’s noise.

The years have passed, the family grieves,
For the loss of Hoke and Jem;
Maybe they found the will o’ the wisp,
Or maybe it found them!

Copyright (C) 2009 by John Bliven Morin