Kids dump old bikes in the Takasegawa Canal.
Rust talks with water. Water takes fright.
Glum eastern mountains start to weep without stint.
Bikes seep to zero going elsewhere from ore.
Cold in the high streams can’t remain a keen knife.
It blunts in the valleys. In the stone-roasted lowlands.
Wind from Fukushima puts a grey crust around bones.
Tanged water ebbs listless in the Takasegawa Canal.
Now even dry things start to weep without stint.
Scott Walker Song
1 February 2016