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.