Knobby Clubsedge

Ficinia nodosa

Through gale and rain

you grow your lean reeds

like a thicket of masts

that bend, ever-so-slightly

to the east—sun-obeisance

or simply the wind blasting

from the west, hurtling through this bowl

of muddy water and its lining

of meandering reeds?

In these quantities

you form a field, shaggy

as the hide of an unkempt dog.

Alive, electric.

When the creek runs its cold tongue

over sand and mud, and tannin water

rises over crabholes, you grow

greener, thicker, more vigorous

as if realising the gift you offer:

here in this corner between swamp

and creek, a swan has built

its dry pile of reeds like a funeral pyre

or Sumerian tomb, a large cake

studded with crab claws and shells,

your bodies its bed, stripped and broken

by that strong, black beak, those feet

paddling, dancing you flat until a bustle

of feathers can settle, supported

by your springy lattice, this mound

that is both mattress and throne.