The Flood
The civility of seasonality is all washed up.
Now it dumps on everyone, random as climate change.
We take the fall, it’s all sheeted down to us.
A wall of water forced its way into my room one night.
First the windows imploded, then the walls caved.
It picked up everything, churning, turning it all over, ballistic.
It found me hunched and punched the little water bag of my body
into its element, made me flotsam like the rest of my rubbish.
Made me understand the nature of oblivion.
‘Earth’ means ‘ground’, but she is three quarters water.
Liquid beings with feet of clay, in some way we dissolve
whenever the wild hand of our mother touches us.
Elspeth Findlay is a poet and author of short stories and essays. Dwelling in the Northern Rivers of NSW, Australia, they have a deep interest in understanding eco-cultures and adaptation, above and below ground. Their poetry is published in the Northerly and is touring with the Bimblebox 153 Birds. They study Arts, majoring in Creative Writing.
Emerge Literary Journal 