Married Life

The year we married, a red hot summer lasted
so long the garden burnt. We were betting
who was hottest you or me; our wedding marquee
was used as a sun shelter, tempers ran high
that summer, then out of the blue,
a passionate thunderstorm sent orange warnings
across the skies. The land became impassable;
rain poured down in waterfalls, ponds filled up
and spilled over. That night, we woke,
when the foundations of the house began moving,
we clung to each other at the storm's pounding,
felt a soft shudder like a boat taking off, then
there was a comforting silence and we fell
back into sleep like slow moving fish tasting
the salt of the open sea.
In the morning, a scaly sky hung over the house,
the radio confirmed the flood. You wore
your herringbone suit, your salmon shirt, rubber boots
that tackled the slippery grounds. When you waded
across the liquid kitchen, I noticed the ducks
landing on the roof. Two wild swans flew past the chimney,
calling out warnings I ignored. Or were they to reassure us?
That life would go on anyhow, like the ducks
around us, now swimming in circles?