There’s a tide in the affairs of men,
A moon in the affairs of women.
Death and Nightingales - Eugene McCabe.
…
Without respite, a month’s worth of rain fell over a day, through a night.
Unrelenting from lead black skies, in truth, it felt like a judgement of spite.
…
After the flood waters had fallen, I walked the debris-littered river beach,
tattered plastic festoons hung from trees branches, fluttering, wind strewn.
…
Where white-grey sand had lain, once flecked with old red sandstone,
brought down from Pen-y-fan*, to rest and lie for a while on the river shore.
…
Now all is gone, a few bared stones hang on, a tree trunk fallen long ago,
exposed by the floods scouring rip and roar. And everywhere,
…
the signs of man’s disrespect, of careless stupidity, for the hills, for the rivers,
and the old meadow lands, where I walk each day, raked by desolation now.
…
The heron has taken up its usual quarter, eating anything that moves nearby.
