Flood levels

looking for dry ground,
he quarters the fields
but the flood plain here
could swallow an army

and suck birds from the sky

his unnatural boat
crawls from lane to lane
obeying speed limits
colliding with the unknown

something moving under water

it is too late for retreat
strategies have gone down
and do not resurface:
a new landscape is being formed

grey islands taking shape

there are rumours of different tides
new offensives
brave new worlds

cures for drowning

looking for dry ground
he searches the old maps
the front lines
the ways home, seeking

the infinitesimal edge


 This poem relates firstly to the floods in Somerset and secondly to the mud in which so many soldiers drowned in the first world war: so it is doubly topical.