My body mostly water now I remember that stream Exmoor red bed boulders intervals in its falling music filling my Camden ears locked limbs to flow with it and so to heal my heart whose systole/diastole these two loved places are in Britain – one pastoral retreat, the sacred wood, a natural baptism, the other dusty familiar full of faces meeting of possibility for pillars of gold metamorphosis, speaking to each other the beautiful city. And the rain falls on the just and the unjust in its bounty. No, the land is cursed, the body politic despised and neglected. Now that soft grey cloud the common good becomes the start of a billion pound production line. It is sold as well as our soil, minerals, energy, skills, telecommunications, for private profit called plc but cynically not for the public. Citizens have queued at standpipes for what they feared was contaminated. The very act of selling it already slips in poison and our bodies mostly built of it. Sold. Fools' gold. Unhope. Land of my heart we are unclean, we stink. What skylark water will wash our body? Sweet heaven what shall we drink?
