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.
great poetry, nice flow. i love it