by Marc Lionhart10 Feb 2014
Quiet, still as the calm, written in stone
Quaint still, many call their homes, some live there alone
But as the banks broke it brought a cascade of crashing waves and futile attempts to stave the flowing rain
Moorland is underwater now
A village in ruins, thin on the ground, the populous dwindling fast
The last laugh had by the dance of the river, the demise of society in a mere whisper, the people had no chance
Evacuation, save for starvation
The people ran
As the mist descends upon the rippling horizon, nature's crippling hand grapples might's miserly candle, a blatant reminder of the brutal fate we are subjected to face
While the fires are doused with muddy kerosene, the eye is as wide as it has ever been
Homes are consumed, while the earth voice booms: "I'm blue, and unwell"
Bones are exhumed, as are the souls of the drowned
From what will be found, the clarity of the sounds that were never allowed ring out
Gargling mouths, Sam Notaro's house
Bless poor Moorland, now under ocean without sands.