My vines grow in your house A gourd grows on the vine My flowers come in many colours I bloom brightest at night

I move so slowly, I might seem to stall, On rainy days, you’ll find me on the ground, Leaving a shiny silver trail all around.

Winged death takes flight, A feathered end, so precise, Bulls eye pierced and still.

Where moonlight weaves on silvered bog, There sings a sage of mist and fog. No crown he bears, yet leaps with grace, A green-robed lord of marsh and place. With sudden spring and gleaming eye, Pray name this mystic passerby.

Swap my middle letters and I'm serene. Wearing mud sweaters I'm found in freshwaters and marine.