And Still It Rains

Standard

Three hundred children,
brim full of poetry’
are shuffled from the library:
a whispered threat
to their security
(just enough to suggest
that nothing that has been
and is and always was,
will ever be the same again.)

The river is too high
and still it rains.

Three hundred children,
eyes opened up recklessly,
watch consonance leap
apocalyptically,
chanting cataclysmically,
shouting out, ‘the end is nigh’
and fiercely, metaphorically,
dragging fine diagonal lines
across the day dark sky.

In less than two hours time,
the water will be child high.

Three hundred children turn
from the frantic shouting,
the river rising,
the teachers’ rhythmic counting.
They strain their necks to see,
as out of the worried crowd,
a poet pirouettes.
Lost in a world, within a world,
they watch the old man dance,
each catching gratefully
his elegant insanity.

Forget the storm.
This is the stuff of memories.

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