The deluge

Suddenly there are bright colours
under those broken wings,
bright after the deluge.
The clear valley of the river
shimmering gently sliding away,
wreckages swept along,
my old home, its dim passageway
and rattling sashes. The garden cemented
and bricked in with time
stuck in a loop,
until oneday a surge of emotion
had broken free and the river had risen up
and raced towards the sea,
felling trees and killing people,
anything that thought it could just stop
where it was.

It continues in your consciousness, the thought that a person will find out who they are. You try to draw out the bony little child from the eyes reflected back at you, risk seeing beyond the glass into that draughty attic where they store the past.