Hot Vents

Surging
Oily vapors,
Belch from twisted stacks
And Tolkienian cracks of doom, black smokers spew
Into the relentless, cold, bathyal void.
A shimmering mirage of sulphurous waves,
Teeming with luminescent bodies
Darting to an alien rhythm of life,
Hidden from the
Nature that we
Fathom.

Copyright©1999 S. Grieve