The Flood
John Clare
On Lolham Brigs in wild and lonely mood I’ve seen the winter floods their gambols play Through each old arch that trembled while I stood Bent o’er its wall to watch the dashing spray As their old stations would be washed away Crash came the ice against the jambs and then A shudder jarred the arches—yet once more It breasted raving waves and stood agen To wait the shock as stubborn as before —White foam brown crested with the russet soil As washed from new plough lands would dart beneath Then round and round a thousand eddies boil On tother side—then pause as if for breath One minute—and engulphed—like life in death Whose wrecky stains dart on the floods away More swift than shadows in a stormy day Straws trail and turn and steady—all in vain The engulfing arches shoot them quickly through The feather dances flutters and again Darts through the deepest dangers still afloat Seeming as faireys whisked it from the view And danced it o’er the waves as pleasures boat Light hearted as a thought in May— Trays—uptorn bushes—fence demolished rails Loaded with weeds in sluggish motions stray Like water monsters lost each winds and trails Till near the arches—then as in affright It plunges—reels—and shudders out of sight Waves trough—rebound—and fury boil again Like plunging monsters rising underneath Who at the top curl up a shaggy main A moment catching at a surer breath Then plunging headlong down and down—and on Each following boil the shadow of the last And other monsters rise when those are gone Crest their fringed waves—plunge onward and are past —The chill air comes around me ocean blea From bank to bank the waterstrife is spread Strange birds like snow spots o’er the huzzing sea Hang where the wild duck hurried past and fled On roars the flood—all restless to be free Like trouble wandering to eternity
