We muster at Vauxhall at 11:30. We’re all wearing
blue because today we’re the voice of the water.
We set off at the pace of a sea-snail. Above our heads a shoal
of dead-eyed fish swim to nowhere on the tips of bamboo canes.
A vast black whale constructed from plastics recovered
from the river trundles along on unseen wheels.
Beside us the Thames, depressed and turgid, struggles to keep
pace, its murk-choked depths no longer able to reflect the sky.
The placards come straight to the point: Cut the Crap!
Species not Faeces!! No shit, Sherlock!!!
As we near Lambeth Bridge two ten-foot inflatable turds
skip past us chanting mantras. We’re surrounded by
mermaids, people in diving gear, kingfishers, water-voles.
Even Neptune has forsaken the benthic depths to join us.
In Parliament Square a bank of TV screens reminds us
of a world of water we no longer recognise.
The activists – Olympic rowers, sailors, surfers, wild water
swimmers – take to the stage to give voice to our message.
They hurl our disdain at the walls of Westminster.
It falls on deaf ears … today is a Sunday.