It was at the cottage, by the marsh,
Where the husband slipped through the threshold.
The Bass boots left marks of silt and clay on the worn wooden floor.
He dropped the shovel on the floor as well.
And globs of mud, sawgrass and marsh water seeped in the cracks, forever to stay there,
As a silent reminder.
He sat down at the dinner table, a table for two,
With only one chair.
The coo-coo clock chimed above his head,
It was dinner time, where was dinner?
His thick gruff hands made fists and smashed the table top,
Breaking the maple top in two, which now made it a table for one.
He just needs sleep, his temper was getting to him.
As the husband climb up the stairs to the spacious bed,
And laid his head upon the pillow, he fell asleep.
But if you follow the muddy tracks down the stairs, through the kitchen, out the door, into the rain,
to the marsh, you will see a pile of mud that looks misplaced.
The sludge will begin to shift and slide away to reveal a hauntingly beautiful women.
She will rise, and walk through the marsh, in the rain, to the door, through the kitchen and up the stairs to see her husband in a fitful sleep.
And as any good wife would do,
She'll kiss him and lay next to him to ease whatever could be on his mind at this hour.