The Flood

Far, far away stories came, of a monster flood,

Loose on the river: rising, leaping, swelling, growing;

Sending news of its arrival.

First pieces of wood, then boards, then logs, all gently

Flowing down the stream, vanguard to the coming storm,

First a sound, a deafening roar, then…

Great waves rush down the widening river,

Sweeping all before them,

Ever flowing, ever rushing, ever moving

On down to its destination, far, far away.

Roaring through a multitude of ports and towns,

Pouring forth great gushes, spouting, spewing,

Sending the country folk all scattering.

Cruel and crafty, it seeps; stealing,

Creeping, crawling, slowly moving up and up.

There a pig cries, wildly screaming;

There a helpless widow stands, hands limp,

And still the torrent rushes on,

The water swishes left and right,

Weaving, swirling, spinning, sweeping,

Far, far on to its destination.

The flood has gone, the wet ground dries,

Revealing cracking mud and strewn debris 

Littering the long shore where once the tyrant flowed.

There a lizard slithers, twisting, writhing;

There a child is comforted, softly moaning;

There a boy looks o’er the expanse, wishing, thinking,

Thinking of the places far down the river.