And Still It Rains

Excellent!

Sarah Hehir

Three hundred children
brim full of poetry
are shuffled from the library:
a whispered threat
to their security
(just enough to suggest
that nothing that has been
and is and always was,
will ever be the same again.)

The river is too high
and still it rains.

Three hundred children,
eyes opened up by poetry,
watch as reckless consonance
leaps apocalyptically,
chanting cataclysmically,
shouting out, ‘the end is nigh’
and fiercely, metaphorically,
dragging fine diagonal lines
across the day dark sky.

In less than two hours time,
the water will be child high.

Three hundred children
strain their necks to see,
as out of the worried crowd,
a poet pirouettes.

Three hundred children turn
against the river rising,
the frantic shouting,
the teachers’ rhythmic counting.
Lost in a world, within a world,
they watch the old man dance:
each catching perfectly
this version of insanity.

Forget the storm.
This is…

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