There is no water that flows or drips

down the drain and to be carried

out to sea, it stands

almost still, interrupted in its quiet

domination of all it touches

only by the gentle aftermath of wind,

slowly pushing at the edges, slowly,

slowly, rippling back time.

There is no water that flows from the drain

to the sea, it stands moat like, defence

in its favour, defiant, as the one grate

it surrounds, stands aloof and proud

to be on a higher plane