This poem takes place on the day of the (more recent) Sheffield Flood: 25th June 2007
Smoke rises vertically
On the day the storm came to change our city
We three headed for home in pouring rain
Direction shown by smoke drift but not by wind vanes
You’d tried to drive, but realised soon enough that it was hopeless
Abandoned the car by Morrisons and hoped
The water would not reach it.
Wind felt on face; leaves rustle; wind vane moved by wind
Instead we trudged and waded, tried to use
The seven hills to our advantage. Kept to the high ground
Leaves and small twigs in constant motion; light flags extended
The staff of a car showroom, stranded,
Crouched in their business suits
Making paper boats out of catalogs
And cheering as they raced them down the road.
Raises dust and loose paper; small branches moved.
the teenagers we tried each day to teach our strange new language to
Whooped and hollered splashed each other and guffawed
Sure of a day off tomorrow, they waved at news crews circling above.
Small trees in leaf begin to sway; crested wavelets form on inland waters.
It was 6 miles. We started to wonder
Were our friends safe, our houses dry inside?
Large branches in motion; whistling heard in telegraph wires; umbrellas used with difficulty.
“Mine will be fine”, you said. “I’m on the 5th floor.”
Invited us to warm and dry ourselves before we carried on.
We climbed the flights of stairs, dripping and swearing
Three drowned rats
Whole trees in motion; inconvenience felt when walking against the wind.
We’d only ever talked of work before.
Been colleagues, but not friends,
You crossed the boundary: rolled us all a spliff
We sat around your kitchen table, smoking.
Twigs break off trees; generally impedes progress.
We talked of wind and rain in other countries
You told us that in Urdu rain comes down
Not as cats and dogs but mortars and pestles
You showed us, on the wall, your favourite poem:
The Beaufort Scale, you said, was beautiful.
Slight structural damage (chimney pots and slates removed).
My skin had been dyed purple by my soaking coat.
You cackled as I pulled the clammy leather on.
And the two of us left you for the final mile
Seldom experienced inland; trees uprooted; considerable structural damage
Giddy, giggling, we stood on the bridge, and watched the water raging underneath us
Until we realised the stones we stood on could be swept away themselves, and hurried home.
Very rarely experienced; accompanied by widespread damage.
I knew we would be friends now, but somehow,
We never shared that intimacy again.
And then, suddenly, a sombre announcement in staff briefing:
You’d been missing for days, in your flat, with the scale you taught us as a eulogy.
Devastation.
Tom Juniper Poetry 