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?