Pure Filth

When the woollen industry died, the reservoir that fed the old mill, became disused. The water meadow at its head became a swamp. Developers, who want to build houses everywhere, take one look at the quagmire, sniff the stench fouled air, and walk away. The channels are long blocked. The drains are long broken. So a freed, unmanaged, unmanacled nature; binges on the anarchy of liberation, brewing a brackish broth of sweet stagnation. Children are warned to stay away from the deadly, dangerous, disease ridden slough. Lest the Knucker Dragon, swamp devil, swallow them whole. Bulrushes, point brown accusing fingers to the sky, blaming the heavens for their muddied becoming and placement. Blood worm larvae, orphaned Fly Nymphs, ravenous in the root and stem of grasses; greedily gorge without discrimination, where cannibal repast; is often a relation. Herons, are shadows that pass over, heading for the cleaner waters below. Snipe scutter in the soft mire, poking for grubs. Busily burying beaks in the flowering Bogbean, and Hogweed: Yellow Flag Iris, and Ragged Robin, rampantly roar a rich cacophony of colour. Beady eyed, scruffy small, fat water vole. Mining leerdammer labyrinths in the banks, faring fine on favoured vegetation, prosperously multiply in stinking habitation.