In one account of the Tungusic creation myth, Buga, their central deity, set fire to a vast primordial ocean. Following a long struggle, the flames consumed much of the water, exposing dry land. Then Buga created the light and separated it from darkness, and descended to the newly created land, where he confronted Buninka, the devil, and a dispute arose between them over who had created the world.
It's possible my mind was not entirely on this subject.
When Buga woke, the world was teeming ocean,
like some gazpacho soup of promise made.
Then Buga spoke: his plans were set in motion;
the fire burned – ingredients flambéed.
On land denuded, scorched, Buninka woke,
with eyes abused beneath a newborn sun.
In voice of earth and stone Buninka spoke:
“Behold this awesome world wot I just done!”
Beginning thus the sonnet yesterday,
I broke to check our progress in the cricket.
Well, in Ahmedabad, by close of play,
had tumbled seventeen sucessive wickets.
The shortest Test since Nineteen Thirty-Five?
O how’s a Yorkshire poet s’posed to thrive?