Wrought wet hands pass over hollow baskets
Of wound, wild wicker; woven wood-bodies
As still as effigies, to be sunk in flooded fields.

Trailing, they sink slowly, one by one, falling,
Settling by silt, looming reeds and ratty roots
Cunning as wolves, beneath the black surface.

A new tide flows freely, billowing salty pools,
While the eels slither, gather, snaking eagerly,
Enmeshed like netted Nightjars, till daybreak.