This river, deeper than most in metaphor,
abundantly fluent in simile,
is in spate. Its frantic, muddy currents
rush from rain-filled mountains, which seas formed, ice shaped.
The unruly, tramelled waters race past fields
with tended hedgerows, and furrows ploughed,
and cattle standing – past the ends of streets, windows blank with light, curb stones unmoved.
The hectic flow roars, downstreams towards us:
its colour turbulent, tarnished gun-metal;
the froth of its creamy foam divided,
severed by the axe-shaped arches of the bridge
we stand on, seemingly safe from the surge.
We raise our voices above the abundance,
above the dissonance.Chesterriver Dee