The river’s this high, meterstick submerged spilling over gorsebrush banks, making playthings of our sandbags, flowing into cattle fields swamping those wild enough to leave their car overnight in the yard.
A yellow plaything caught in an eddy seems to have survived.
Twice a year, as the rains wash potash out of farrow trench wash heartsail out of hedgerow wash the tender touch of the plough wash stones thrown from field to ditch this lumbering wave moves south.
Above the city first then in four slow hours inland tides reach us: dirt, rabble and rock carried sludge, a whole country’s stomach void.
From field to sea, this shortlived riverswell holds for a moment disregard for all things not river then recedes slowly as it arrived.