Forecast
It was a wonder when the water rose
in low areas, where in those days
their cottages were built in valleys
and declivities beside industry
and the roar of the stream
when it was swollen to the banks
meant quick machinery – the grunt
of iron and brass pistons sliding
in oil and a hiss of steam; it was a free
gift from nature, more bacon
for the humble more brass for the boss
more product dropping off and off
the end of the belt, more
for horsepower to haul
up the same cobbled hills to
a redbrick station with latticing
on the canopies, the soot-blacked
windows, the draughty waiting room
– now they seek high ground: no room
here for sentimentality or soot-blacked
minstrels on one knee: the old latticing
breaks and splinters as valleys flood to
the very oxters, too late now to haul
your alpacas or 4×4 to safety, no more
sleeping easy at night with the latch off
– this is the stealth intruder your boss
has no power to stop. Now bacon
is scarce; no such thing as a free
lunch – watch the company sliding
into doldrums, cue a curt grunt
from insurance firms and banks,
the torrent of my income stream
a trickle in spite of my industry,
my fathers’ mills folding into valleys
as rubble. Wait, now: one of these days
this earth might again yield a rose.
Claudia Daventry has been widely published, appearing in anthologies from Bloodaxe, Bridport, Arvon, Irish Literary Review, Poetry London and The Dark Horse. She has won several awards for her poetry, taking first place in the Bridport, Ruskin and Hippocrates prizes. She is currently researching the effect of light pollution on circadian rhythms and mental health.
Yes, yes, poetic and political. Difficult to say together, but you do it well!
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