Clockwork Angel

A note of salt

slips in and the river rises,

darkening to the color of tea,

swelling to meet the green.

Above its banks the cogs and wheels

of monstrous machines

clank and spin, the ghost within

vanishes into its coils,

whispering mysteries.

Each tiny golden cog has teeth,

each great wheel moves

a pair of hands which take

the water from the river,

devour it, convert it into steam,

coerce the great machine to run

on the force of its dissolution.

Gently, the tide is rising,

corrupting the mechanism.

Salt, rust and silt

slowing the gears.

Down at the banks

the iron tanks

sway into their moorings

with the hollow boom

of a gigantic bell,

of drum and cannon

which cry out in a tongue of thunder

and the river rolls under.