The river song

It’s the road that dogs the river there
  and erratic swerves around the swell,
a besotten banker sounds his threats
  astride the crease, the fen. Where the creek
might flood the dyke with florid muck
  and afterbirth I strike the bank
to cause it to yield and decay, to bring
  about the final days, the fire
that exhales thick steam and exhumes our fears
  forgot. I strike no ore.

                                       In the straits,
aground amidst the greening blooms
  of algae beset by alcoves of silt,
a votive thing to the vagrant rich
  whose flightpaths haunt the valley here.
I gather the corrugated sheet
  to my shoulder and wade through lurid waste
to find the spires felled and raised,
  and my swaddling spreads about the spine
and enclosed we drift the clay becalmed.
  A curlew wails alone.

                                       The way
to town is swollen with idols, whose wan,
  effusive faces fall to the earth,
and whose long, contorted limbs point out
  towards the stream. I search the stars
that quell their kin, and quietly I speak
  the held aloft, examined, and left
to fall, and bathed by force in brine,
  and caked in silt I go to slight
appeals for turgid peace that we tore
  away the river’s mouth.

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