These Are My JOTtings, Part #2

Marshlands of the Georgia Coast

Marshlands wait along the coast,
calling, "Bring your heart."
Nothing there would cause a boast,
though great hope can start.

"Must be low the salty tide.
Smell the 'rotten eggs,'
pluff mud fragrance will abide
as wine." For some the dregs.

Sunset builds cathedrals here,
coasting boat or bench.
Lapping waters lift each care,
wafting breeze, the stench.

Marshlands, such acquired tastes,
aromas, so profound,
for those, who roam the salty wastes
their pleasures quite abound.

Lumb'ring gators, scuttling crabs,
snakes, and ocean fish
tend their duties, moms, and dads
provide some future wish.

Exist, they do, these marshland homes
because the shelf is long,
and shallow, like a sunny dome,
providing light's love song.

The Blake Plateau off most the coast
lights eighty sunny miles
from dryish land, this ocean's toast
creates some lazy wiles.

Tides roll out to bare the mud.
Sun bakes the potpourri.
Each fragrance lands quite like a thud,
until embracings free.

Some places have a sweeter smell,
but if you've grown up here
the pluff-mud's odors often tell,
"You're home, where land is dear."

The coastal Georgia marshlands call,
"Come, share this life, unique.
There's pleasantness for one and all,
beyond the pluff-mud's reek."

by Jay O’Toole
on September 6th, 2021