Father Thames

Father ThamesFather Thames

 

Percussion of slips from the big grey sky

Taps with mocking feet on glass

A snide whisper of wind ushers them along

Putting a wash upon their beat

 

Beyond the obscurity of wet glass

Flood waters still rise

We, not more than half a mile from the front line

Mark time and slink along the tarmacadamed borders

 

Watch the swollen, racing River Thames

Slice portions of gardens from the bank

Twist restraining ropes and sever possessions

From their aching ties

 

Tragedy is an unworthy spectator sport

For those that are poorly moored

Are sucked below the wet horizon

And sulk, tethered, stolen dreams

 

As rain continues to dance on our restraints

The final frontier is more desperate

More crude. Sand bags

To hold back the tide?