The floods
The floods have not reached us
not wiped out the roadway, not overflowed the fields
The squalls have not reached us
not torn up trees by the roots, not
blocked the roads, tossed the train from the rails
Three thousand railway workers have not cleared
one thousand one hundred trees. No stable roof has blown off
near Petersborough, no aircraft was forced
to make a second landing attempt with terrified
passengers. No Sharon Black, 40, was still shaking
when saying the words: I honestly thought
I was going to die. The entire reality
from Aberdeen to Dover, from Dublin
to the English Channel was enacted in the
virtual emptiness that unexplored is called your brain
And you shut your eyes and said: Where you are is not death
where death is you are not. But the water continued to rise
and the two schoolboys at Robertsbridge, East Sussex
continued their arduous path through the expanses of water
leading their bikes through the vast defoliation
since the river had once more burst the embankments
and inundated the land one could not see
until Stan Lewis stepped out onto the staircase of his shop in Bewdley
to feed seven swans floating on a mirror of calm.
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