The trouble was it overwhelmed the land,
The glistening waters gobbled everything,
Not drowned, but living, everything: the grand,
The not-so-grand, all thriving in the swing
Of tails writhing, eager to be free,
Each to its own expression and distinct,
But indistinct; so many flapping, we
Could only feel the force of them, all linked
Into a swimming mass in one great surge
Of different textures, different shades and skins.
It left us thinking: what here would emerge
With all this foaming madness, widdershins,
Let loose by floodgates. Could we understand
The trouble that had overwhelmed the land?
