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?

Sweet Nothing

Hampton Ferry

Mist rising like silk

Disturbed by a murmur

Over cold water laid flat

By silence

Before morning shakes it all and,

Our voices breathe warmth

On words that float away

 

The chill stillness

Will evaporate

As we ruffle the shadows

On diffident souls

Whose pathways remain

But the moment has gone

 

The silk sunk by whimsy

Is a memory that whispers

Soft nothings in the mind

As time collapses on the day

For us to rise and shine

Above it all