There are the Magogs that chewed the clay To the basin that London nestles in. These are the currents that chiselled the city, That washed the clothes and turned the mills, Where children drank and salmon swam And wells were holy.
They have gone under. Boxed, like the magician’s assistant. Buried alive in earth. Forgotten, like the dead.
They return spectrally after heavy rain, Confounding suburban gardens. They inflitrate Chronic bronchitis statistics. A silken Slur haunts dwellings by shrouded Watercourses, and is taken For the footing of the dead.
Being of our world, they will return (Westbourne, caged at Sloane Square, Will jack from his box), Will deluge cellars, detonate manholes, Plant effluent on our faces, Sink the city.