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
Chesil Beach is one of the glories of England’s coastline. The name derives from the Old English ‘ceosel’ or ‘cisel’, meaning “gravel” or “shingle”. It lies at the eastern end of what is known as the Jurassic Coast which stretches for many miles along the shores of Dorset and Devon on England’s southern coast. My Gallery this week displays a number of photographs which I took there 10 years ago.
A gentle love poem by the American lyric poet, Sara Teasdale (1884-1933). After her marriage in 1914, she used the name Sara Teasdale Filsinger. As the sea-grass lives in and is sustained by the sea, so the poet wishes her life to be consumed and given wholly to her love. The images created belie her own love story when it would appear that she married largely to meet with the wishes of her parents. The marriage ended in divorce in 1929 and just four years later Sarah was found dead in her bath. Although denied at the time, it is believed that the death was suicide.
I think of my first love who escaped south and who now faces old age with a brightness far better than death’s impending despair.
My last love, All passion spent, Was of a quiet deep fulfilment of silent bliss engaging me while the blackbird for both of us now sings in the highest tree and, with a distant touch of the hands, a slower walk with the waves on that distant shore, bird and sea, my soul is fed, listening to their songs keeping at bay life’s end.
For now I dream converse, I listen to my memories, resisting that clouding of the vision which elapsed time brings.
I allow perception of days to come in which appreciative eye and halcyon heart will enable a new closeness, one of being together in harmony with both past and present, and the future becomes again brighter.