Bog near Parnu
The white plank path winds through the bog.
Some idiot's standing on it - one of those Daddo boys -
But even he, compulsorily mouthing,
knows he's hit upon beauty.
Even the editor -
Where is the camera?
Hanging like a hawk, it seems.
None of the trees here are tall enough;
you couldn't get a cherry-picker in;
you have to put boards down to stop
just people sinking, let alone a vehicle.
Even the editor knows
and does that thing, so corny
but today it works:
the Daddo walks away
along the white boards
between the trees,
which are slim and small, with sketchy foliage
across the carpet of bog-flowers (woven,
as he told us, having stepped wrongly,
up to his thighs in bog and laughing
of all these tiny plants, he said, and we cut to them.
Like this pink one,
that eats flies!).
The Daddo walks away,
fades out at the first curve,
fades in rounding the second
(no longer a Daddo; only a figure, now),
fades out, fades in again far away,
fades out, so that we can see
the green bog without him,
the tentative, hopeful trees,
the wooden path delivering
its silvery invitation to our feet.