A new poem by Louise Wrightson.

Flood.

(1)

Sorrow overflows the saucepans
and plinks on the rise.

We are not ready for grief—
how blatantly it walked in
and set a place at our table!

We wade through sadness,
stirring up the silt of memory.

(2)

We were living innocently—
neither unhappy nor fulfilled.

And now this deluge of lasagne,
flowers, pumpkin soup, baking
and cards with embossed letters—
          this too will pass

(3)

          just tell us when
so we can mop up our sorrow
and empty it outside; where sirens
insist on clearance, children are frantic
for their mothers and the world is burning.

Author’s Note: “The genesis of this poem was a response to the 2023 Hawke’s Bay floods. The devastation to the land and loss of life caused by Cyclone Gabrielle were unexpected and extreme. At the time I couldn’t express the tragedy well enough, so put the draft aside. This year I returned to it. I realise now this final version is also an “anticipatory grief” — grieving for the slow decline and loss of capability my partner, Dave Russell, struggled with for years. He died recently from Parkinson’s Disease.”