Flood

When the heavens open with relentless rain,
Rivers rise, their voices a low, angry refrain.
Streets become mirrors, reflecting the grey sky,
While gulls wheel above the swelling tide.

Sandbags line the pavements, a futile guard,
As water laps at doorsteps, soft and uncharred.
Children watch from upstairs windows, wide-eyed,
Dreaming of boats where cars once glided.

The old oak in the park stands stoic and bare,
Its roots drinking deep, yet holding firm there.
Neighbours share tea, their spirits undampened,
Finding humour in soggy socks and bemused.

When the clouds finally sigh and retreat to the east,
Leave behind puddles that glitter like glass beads.
The sun breaks through, casting gold on the wet,
And the land, refreshed, begins to forget.

In Britain’s soft light, the flood tells a tale—
Of nature’s power, of community, frail yet frail‑proof,
Reminding us all that after the storm’s loud refrain,
Calm returns, and life flows on again.