In the Marshes by Arthur Glyn Prys-Jones

I
We do not know in the marsh
What dim things hover and come
Down from the yellow moon
To the lure of the witch’s drum:
Deep in the bulrush-beds
The thin reeds quake all day
For what they see in the dark …
They quake … but they cannot say.

II
There at the turn of the tide
Deep in the oozy mud
Are the hands of men who died
When the marshes sank in flood:
And the marshmen hear their throes
In the winds each gusty day,
But only the witch-wife knows
Why the mud-banks hold their prey.

III
When the dark has sealed the West
The marsh is loud with feet
That move in old unrest …
And wings that whir and beat
Hover over the sands
From year to desolate year,
And even the trees are gnarled with pain
And the waters grey with fear.