The River Gods

The rivers of the London Clay Run, hidden from the light of day, In cutting, culvert, pipe and drain Below the overburdened plain.

They dive beneath the office blocks To reach the tideway and the docks, And wind discreetly through a maze Of narrow streets and crooked ways.

The Lea's enclosed in locks and bars To form a set of reservoirs.

The Effra's under Brixton Hill, A spare storm-water overspill.

The Westbourne's in a cast-iron frame.

The Tyburn's just a bitter name.

The concrete even hoards and hems The passage of the mighty Thames To meet its sea in rage and fear Between the barrage and the weir.

So London's challenging the odds Of all its ancient river gods, The deities whose fluent hand Not only owns, but made the land.

They'll seek possession and revenge.

They've been here since before Stonehenge, And clay holds water in its bones, And water wears away the stones.

The Walbrook runs below St Paul's, And what's it doing to the walls?

The Fleet, they say, is still alive: Will Holborn viaduct survive?

The Ravensbourne has harm to wreak From Caesar's Camp to Deptford Creek.

And probably they'll win at last.

All south-east England's sinking fast.

A confrontation may be near, The North Sea tides rise every year.

Undefeated, unassuaged, The pagan spirits, barely caged, Are muttering amid their slime That London lives on borrowed time.

R. A. Muller