When the rain can down heavy

the stream swelled,

turned the colour of stewed tea,

tore mouthfuls of mud

from its battered banks,

ragged at the roots

birthed fresh from their safety,

still knitted and twisted

in earth that was gone.

In the bottom it was peat.

Even when the sun shone bright,

painted the slip of water silver

and shimmered.

Even when it cooked the day

split the ground,

turned tarmac soft,

blistering.

It’s underbelly was still silt

and quicksand.