Darknesswater

a poem by Roger B Rueda

We were plunged into darknesswater.
The next day, cerulean skies.
Underneath, cobalt mire with sky in it.
In the clouds, the blue, so blue,
with its filth  out of sight,
sludge opening its ridges,
sludge slackening
the shatterproof suspicions,
to  clog up as if the whole thing
should be sky, turf ramparts
run, radices spread,
radices perished off, decolourised slurry,
and walls, slush,
and the brickwork filled with walls
that splits and raises, mud,
whole hillsides
of thin grey radices
visible,
all running downhill,
gleaming, waterlogged,
slipping their eased, interwoven
source, and the stems
were released,
and the verdant extensions
of root line, the moon’s
outmost transfigurations,
light’s green in-chatters with moon
now glazed-down forebodingly,
drawn down
over the newly-opened talus,
droopy, treacly,
as if the whole ecosphere
must run yet again,
scummy, sleek,
all the stubby rushing
of transformation now
crushed back
into one dark mottling, fusty,
all God's creatures  an abrupt maturing
over shock and then, in the flash, the realm.