Ours was the marsh country, down by the river, Twenty miles from the sea where the wind howls low. A raw afternoon, churchyard overgrown with nettles, Graves of my parents, brothers gone before I could know. I was a small bundle of shivers, crying in the mist, When out of the fog a man rose up, iron on his leg, Filthy, soaked, half-drowned, eyes like burning coal, He seized me by the throat and whispered, "Hold still, young dog." Keep still, you little devil, or I'll cut your throat! .. A fearful man with a great iron on his leg, Chains that clank in the wind like a warning bell, One touch and you're done— ..now bring me what I need. File and wittles, boy, or your heart's my meat, A young man hid in the marshes waits to eat your liver, So mind your tongue and do as you're bid, For mercy's a stranger here where the river meets the dread. ... He tilted me back, chain scraping stone, Threats of a monstrous companion colder than he, I ran home shaking, through the dyke and the gate. Bread and cheese hidden, tar-water burning me. Christmas Eve, the soldiers marching, guns in the mist, But my secret weighed heavier than any chain, One act of pity in the graveyard's gloom, Bound me to a shadow I'd carry to my ruin. And so it began, in the bleak place overgrown, A convict's hunger, a boy's trembling hand, The file that cut the iron, the food that fed the damned, The first link forged in a chain no one can understand. Keep still... keep still... the marshes remember, A file in the night, a promise in December, Clank of the chain, echo of the sea, Great expectations born in fear and secrecy. The river flows on, cold and leaden, Carrying secrets to the savage lair beyond... (Music and Lyrics by Jennifer Leigh Nelson © 2026 Cajora Creations, LLC. All rights reserved.)
