"Never more, Miranda

Never more

Only the high peaks hoar

And Aragon a torrent at the door

No sound but the fall of the tread of the dead

To the ground of the hall

No sound but the boom

Of the far waterfall like doom."

[Tarantella by Hilaire Belloc, recorded 1932]

Hold the slide up to the light, and see the place

The wind blows, screams and moans

Chills you to your hollow bones

And knocks you to the ground

And the water rushes down

Cuts through stone, teeth and bone

Whites of eyes, froths and foams

And wraps you in a cloud

And the drip drip drip

Of the water cold down your back

Cold stone deaf your breathing edges to black

White white noise white white light forcing you back

And the sing sing sing of the spray and the wavelengths of light

Every one suspended in the blink of an eye

White white noise white white light edges to black

Hear it now, listen

Hear it now

Over the high wind's cry

On the wet, wet ground

No sound

In the walls of the halls

Where the fall of the tread

Of the feet that are lead

To the ground

No sound

But the roar of the waterfall