Flood

Afterwards all they could say was this:

that the days remained unseasonably settled,

that the tangible air failed to taste

of anything strange, even in darkness.


That traffic noise became a murmur 

in the distance that didn’t concern them

and, mostly, the sky kept its blue

as the gulley on the border between farm

paddocks grew rivulets that were difficult to gauge.


That they had turned their backs for less than a minute

distracted by the hum of electrics, a message 

arriving that seemed urgent. 


All they could say was that something had crept in

through an outhouse door, taken everything. 


in Poetry South East 2020, Frogmore Press