when the boot sinks deeper
you pull and tug
as if it were made of gold

you yank your foot out
and squat, princess poet,
upon your throne of thorns

and tug two-handed
pull for your pride

until at last
with a gloomy glummmph
the mire surrenders its booty

and you limp benettled
back to Owl Cottage

back to the stonewalled barn
where your flighty mind
has found its beam

and you fill that boot with flowers
and you write yourself a poem

© Helen Sword