The Deluge

This is no mere innocuous spate of
spring rains, the kind of seasonal
beneficence that heralds sun and warmth
and the growth of all living things. No
this is a conspiracy of misery; wind and
unseasonal cold, and a plethora of days
dedicated to dark, hovering clouds
ragged with rain spilling over the landscape
unendingly, copiously, nastily. In a manner
the British colloquially name 'filthy
weather' and which seems more than
suitable as a descriptive. The landscape
is drowning. Forests have become
swamps, tree roots struggling for air.
Rivers are overrunning their banks,
saturated soil is becoming unstable as
hillsides slump into a descending mass
of muck, taking with them the trees
that have grown for a century. Urban 
streets have become swampy rivers 
themselves as home owners are urged 
to vacate their houses to seek safety 
on higher ground, and emergency crews
pile endless sand bags in a fruitless effort
to hold back the rising waters. And still
the rain falls, the wind blows, and a chill
of existential fear creates havoc among
wild creatures whose habitats are now
inundated. Clearly, this is no normal spring
that has descended, but a world gone mad.