Goodnight little fish

T h e  c a n a l  i s  c o n t a m i n a t e d   //  t h e  e c o s y s t e m  i s  u p s e t

Leaving the World Press Photography exhibition yesterday there was a sense of misfortune in the air. Anguish after absorbing the graphic reminders of grief, which have struck the Earth this past year. Walking back along the canal there was a pungent smell of dead fish – the theme was running? Indeed it was. Life in the canal had been struck by its own peril. Under my nose was a current of contamination, a drifting blanket of dead little fish.

Here come the swans,

Sifting through expiry.

A polluted film of filth,

Gills, grime and scales smell of no relief.

Not even God can save you now;

A bleak eel draws its last breath.

About the post

Photos, Poetry, Writing

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