Bosham is a delightful village situated on an arm of Chichester Harbour (West Sussex). Bosham has a long history; it is thought that it was one of the first sites in Sussex were the Saxon St Wilfrid preached, around the year 681 AD. Three centuries later, it was at Bosham that King Canute, tongue in cheek, ordered the waves to cease their movement. Canute’s daughter is buried at Holy Trinity parish church, which features a superb 11th century chancel arch and a Saxon tower.
One of Canute’s successors, Harold, set sail from Bosham in 1064 on the voyage which was to eventually cost him his kingdom, after a storm cast him into the hands of William of Normandy.
Today, Bosham remains a popular boating centre, and it retains many charming 17th and 18th century buildings in the narrow, winding streets and alleys that lead to the harbour. The manor of Bosham House, which may stand on the site of a Saxon house built for Canute, was the home of Henry Hamblin, the popular writer and spiritualist known as the ‘Saint of Sussex’.
She emanates wistfulness melancholy, sorrow bound to her rock out of sight of her sea. Andromeda’s prison awaiting her Perseus.
She thinks of the sea, beseeching the ocean, to roll in and take her to wash her away to be lost in the waves to swirl with the kelp in that pellucid world in those welcoming depths to join the white horses to laze in the rock pools bask on the corals where once were her friends
No coteries here no sisters, no mermen, no one to favour her – offspring or lovers. That whirlpool which bred her the spray which had bathed her sequestrated and gone now no longer her milieu.
Is this always and ever is this life’s stricture retribution for what? For loving her kingdom her aquatic birthright? Or for being in form not fish, fowl nor fiend?
For living a life half tide-borne, half earth-child, hermaphrodite, epicene, ambiguous, undefined, a shadowy being, crippled, malformed?
Her joy now – the sunlight, the breeze and the dew the song of the seagull the far sigh of the sea.
With bared feet and sadness in my soul I walk in the shallows the waves rippling to my bare feet I follow the ribs of the sand to their end in the swell of the next wave and by their disappearance I recognise the promise of their continuation for the world is in flux a life beginning as another ends memory fading at first soon settles into expectation an affirmation as the embers of all that cease to be are carried forward in the seeds of a future hope
Fatberg – Fatberg, Growing so fast; Fatberg – Fatberg, Growing so fast; Please don’t tell them where I am They’re sure to set up a webcam.
I’ve made my way along this river Accepting all from every giver Now I’m stuck – a great fat ball. Full of gunge and ten feet tall.
Mounds of wet-wipes, cooking fat. Now you know what happens to that. Rolled into one gigantic ball, Big as the goddammed Albert Hall.
They say how many of us exist In pipes and rivers in our midst. Across our fair and pleasant land Disposed of waste … Ain’t it grand!
When they’ve dispersed my fat and grease all those wet wipes, every piece Then at last I’ll meet my end But then the next one will descend
And when dissolved, where do we go? Why, into the sea then, don’t you know? That great big cess pool in the ocean, Unlikely to stir your dulled emotions.
A FATBERG is a congealed mass in a sewer system formed by the combination of non-biodegradable solid matter, such as wet wipes, and congealed grease or cooking fat. Fatbergs became a problem in the 2010s in England, because of ageing Victorian sewers and the rise in usage of disposable cloths. Wikipedia