The Flood

There’s a shifted density
in the landscape
following your biblical
month of rainfall –
It has been days
and disturbed nights
of shutting-ins
and battening of doors

My chosen path
is tread-thickened soup –
The mossy velour
on my usual pew
is now an orbicular
stump-top sponge –
my meditative place
is soaked right through

The dripping leaves
of the common hawthorn
are plated to silver
and bent in prayer
by the salty weight
of God’s squeezed tears –
funnelled from him
by you – the doctrinaire

Where my path rises –
with logs as steps –
the deluge descends
in no need of grip –
making me turn
to take another route
to the higher ground
where your boat should sit

In your clearing –
of the sawn and fallen –
you list in pairs
and shout deaf-ear orders
finding many gone –
or now missing –
‘I have to postpone
my plans for The Flood’

Your holy fable
finds a level in puddles –
where water pools
in the lowest place –
and in the clearing
there is no Ark –
We will say
when the seas are raised


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