GOING, GOING, GONE
The river is rushing
and the animals are dying.
The oil is swirling
and I am watching, waiting.
Waiting, waiting for what?
What is there to wait for?
Except for the oil
to bubble and boil and destroy everything.
It gurgles as it swishes to and fro,
lapping up the dead animals
onto the bank and
then sucking them back in again slowly.
The oil is thick.
I have no power;
there's nothing I can do to help them,
to save them at all.
The blackness of the oil
scares me;
it terrifies me as I realise
the consequences.
(Originally written to Saint-Saens The Swan, then later published in Memories of the Millennium, 2000)
and the animals are dying.
The oil is swirling
and I am watching, waiting.
Waiting, waiting for what?
What is there to wait for?
Except for the oil
to bubble and boil and destroy everything.
It gurgles as it swishes to and fro,
lapping up the dead animals
onto the bank and
then sucking them back in again slowly.
The oil is thick.
I have no power;
there's nothing I can do to help them,
to save them at all.
The blackness of the oil
scares me;
it terrifies me as I realise
the consequences.
(Originally written to Saint-Saens The Swan, then later published in Memories of the Millennium, 2000)
