They come to stare at their creek,
once a genial trickle
now a coffee-brown tide
slushing, sliding,
lifting the earth's detritus, spinning
it down to some inconceivable end.
They stare mute at the flooded pathways,
the leveled reeds, the battered trees,
the way the bulge has taken out bends,
flattened the world.
Only the playful ducks have a sense of humour.
The old man in the ark, he too saw the tide rising, he too could not comprehend despite God's insistent words. Pushing the rump of the nearest hyena he fingered the latch shut. The door was closed and the watery chaos would do its will.
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