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.