Autumn Journal VI
Lough Neagh is dying
he’s got the lough in his stomach and stagnant it grows; this algal bloomer of a grumbling auroch— as no man prays to be put to bed or led about the braying head in spayed hope; the frayed rope the fishermen mistook for fairies at the cusp of the catch when the worm turned the hook to spoil and spook— as everything as wriggles is not necessarily living as withers in a growling abyss
For more info on the current disaster our beloved Lough is facing, please check out this link:
"...in spayed hope; the frayed rope...."
"...everything as wriggles is not necessarily living."
Excellent imagery, Conor. A sad situation, indeed.
There's something about the alliteration and the rhymes that makes me think of growling. It would be with good reason. It's criminal what we are being allowed to do, the wanton destruction.