Snell Publishers

Independent e-publishers of fantasy, self-help and travel poetry

Taunton Home

I did get home. I did escape from the Somerset Levels in flood. It does feel like disaster travelling through it, but a quiet disaster, a patient disaster. One that creeps up slowly, by inches, as water levels rise. No drama. An inexorable drip, inch by inch as cattle wait to be rescued and the sheep despairingly wonder how long they are to look like Peruvian lamas when they are blackface or somerset poll, as they are in this poem:

TAUNTON HOME

Storm clouds running
On Blackdown
As I escape
On my delayed 14.28
Train to Exeter St David’s

Blocked from Penzance
No tracks at Dawlish,
45 minutes late due to floods at Reading
But still magnificent still smooth
Hugging the countryside, awash in rain and mud.

The sheep no longer
Look like sheep, wading
Through mud

Discoloured
Disconsolate
Hugging Spring lambs close in safety

As we ask God to
Hold us too!