once
upon a
time,
a river
died.
death
in the river
is a strange thing:
water becomes
a ghastly
sludge
that runs
putrid and fleshy
with corpsemeat and rot
and ropy intestines like vines
and weeping pink viscera.
death
means the river
is frosted
with sticky white fungus
and browning redgills,
waves choking
and sloshing the banks, fungal
arteries so red
dampening the stones
with hyphae, netting
the current
mucousy and warm
with off-white spider silk
'till it runs coagulated
with so many
neutrophils
and platelets
after sickness
has run its course
and in this, the river
thick and reeking
is immortalized. she
has a different name
but she is the same: she
bleeds
so slick
into the dying bog
pulsing wet warmth
into the mushroom-soaked trees
the filthy algae-choked lake
the wilted corpses of ferns
breathing
undying
living anew, and now
the mud is warm
the birds have stilled
and the river is alone: the fen
has embraced decay
and the river
lush, rotted
her waters rich
with tiny fish
pierced by herons
and waterbirds
and reeds so brown and green
is one and the same.
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Photo by Stygian Blue