From the Flood Plain

No flood as parched as this — a mere foot
or two of gilded bilge — will turf us out
from the lands of the frog and the newt
who for the best part of a century
have bided our time in the tall grass.
We’ve stood their ground and stand it still,
though our legs are cased in long green boots
and the sofa’s propped on a tower of bricks.

Unmoved, we see fish swim in the back yard
and a swan sneer from the vicar's garden,
though the cold waters still keep rising,
working away at the silicone seals,
unpicking the doors we’ve turned into dykes
and days may pass before our power’s restored.