Come Hell or High Water...

Cherry

By Silver Spun Sand

Mon, 17 Feb 2014
  • 1758 reads
9 comments
 
Besmirched by thick, brown mud,
her skirt – once orange, like the sun,
she stoops to quench her thirst.
 
A stench of death turns her stomach;
the water makes her sick,
but still, she drinks.  
 
The river, swollen beyond all recognition; 
gone – its banks where she’d bathed, washed 
the family’s clothes – 
 
where he’d built
their modest home, and now,
her makeshift shelter swept away
like a deck of cards
 
and she curses this – 
their life’s blood, that in a few
short hours grew more lethal
than poison
 
destroying all in its path...
lives and livelihoods, cattle, 
crops, bridges, villages and roads.
 
Fields, and orchards – a week ago
rich in grain, and fruit, submerged
by turgid waters; 
 
a timber pier...
a tiny boat from which they cut
the reeds they’d sold – reduced 
to so much flotsam. 
 
Tables, chairs, 
and pictures...bloated bodies, 
floating downstream...detritus 
 
through which she wades, 
waist deep, frantically searching 
for her child, whose father she’d found, 
and buried yesterday. 
 
On her head, a bundle – 
dry clothes for her young daughter;
all she could save, but more precious
than pure gold.
 
She prays she’ll find her soon...
for aid to come, but even then, 
when the floods do recede, 
 
her fight for survival carries on
in a world where man’s  his own 
worst enemy, where tribe 
would slaughter tribe. 
 
Fresh out of prayers, the word, 
Amen sticks in her throat...
Deep inside, her unborn son 
kicks, impatiently, at her ribs; 
 
his chosen name – once, his father’s,
the breath between her lips; 
His will, be done.
Certificate 12
Poem
Silver Spun Sand Poems
Inspiration Point (work that responds to our weekly writing cue)

Comments

Submitted by Silver Spun Sand on

Stan, I thank you for reading, and for your words, which are so very, very true.

Tina

 

Submitted by catherine poarch on

I agree.I started off thinking of Somerset and thinking, I bet my ancestors dug lots of those renes/rhines which are overflowing now. And then, it was so much worse. It's almost impossible to put a time or a place onto this poem. I liked the image of her with the dry bundle on her head.

 

Submitted by Silver Spun Sand on

Thanks, so much, Catherine.  Your inspired thoughts, as ever, more than appreciated.

Tina

 

Submitted by VeraClark on

A graceful, considered tableau of the true meaning of resilience and a nudge to the UK to put things into perspective. This should be put on fliers and slipped in sensationalised tabloids to shame them.  Actually, Tina, forget that. Your poem would scream up against that cheating, lying ink.

 

Submitted by Silver Spun Sand on

Vera, so very much truth in your words, and my sentiments entirely, as you will have already gathered.  

Many, many thanks for your thoughts, inspired as ever.

Tina

 

Submitted by Bee on

Heartbreaking, devastating and so well said. 

Bee

Submitted by Silver Spun Sand on

Thank you, so much, Bee.

Tina

 

Submitted by Rhiannonw on

… and if only the fighting would give way to helping each other … Rhiannon

 

Submitted by Silver Spun Sand on

Couldn't agree with you more, Rhiannon. If only...

Tina