Flood

There are two worlds. The other one, of coffee shops and heartache,

and this one,

experiencing the apocalypse.

From the river. Through the drains.

Through the ground, and the floor, and the carpets,

and homes, and livelihoods, and lives,

the water is rising.

It brings in a flood of reporters and cameras;

forecasts, politicians, tweets and hashtags. For two days, it doesn't seem real, to me -

then the lights flick off, and the internet drops:

my life vanishes.

I am blackness,

and knowledge of the water outside, glinting, and creeping closer.

Fumbling through the house,

I find a little blue torch,

and venture out.

Empty space.

Above, below: starlight.

It feels as if life is yet to form.

Tesco is lit up like a dream. I drift towards it.

On the way, from the dark, a stranger coalesces. He gives me a lighter. And, later, a bag of candles,

which, in an Eastern European accent, he suggests I also offer to others who may be in need.

Although he may not know them, this man has sisters and brothers. They are

the people who stitched the towns together with sandbags.

Who shouted for those who quivered in their homes.

Who wrapped their arms around these communities and held the water, and the fear of water, back.

Su Burrows in Wraysbury,

saving the world.

Floods, rising up - but some of us rise faster.