The great mother horror lived here long before you and me. She had many children.
Her children ate the sharks.
Her children ate the tigers.
Her children chased down the hawks on the wing.
There was a great darkness.
They had eaten the sun.
There was a great stillness.
They had eaten the wind.
Great mother horror walked among her children. She saw that some were eating puppies. Some were eating kittens. Some were eating little humans, not even as old as they were tall.
“Stop that, ” she said, gently. So her children dropped the puppies, and kittens, and the human babes from their long long teeth. They went off to fight enemies who were worthy of them.
Great mother horror lay down to sleep.
It was very quiet.
It was very still.
Then there was a rustling,
A rustling in the moors.
They rose all around her in the marsh,
With soft, high giggling,
And little barks
And little mews.
And their tiny hands dragged her down
They dragged her under
And great mother horror was gone.
Her children gathered to mourn her.
“We tried to warn her,” they said. “Tut tut!”
“We tried to warn her,” they said. “Ah so.”
“But the babies deceived her.”
“The little ones deceived her,” they said.
Then they walked to the edge of her home
And out into the great darkness
And they were gone.
If you look really hard,
You can still see her shape,
Trapped and drowning
Under the marsh.
Not quite alive
But not all the way dead.