Lorca's Works Lost In A Flood, Long Ago Poem by Gordon R Menzies

When the brown river rose we fled, took nothing
it frothed and raged and pummeled, an angry
woman scorned and weeping, hating all she loved
in the garden the blue flowers failed and fell
and the seasoned trees dug in their toes deep
it threw down the red brick garden wall and ivy
as a child shatters its own creation on a whim
our doors and windows shuddered and cringed
sudden bursts of shattered glass and old oak
and in every room the water rose slowly higher
while a book of poems, on a table, sat serenely
indifferent to the elements, desiring freedom
calling to the river like a lover over water, and
in the house, the river soon calmed and rested
it explored every room, climbed every wall
things began to float, but the book only waited
when the river finally touched the poetry, its
heat warmed the water, and the book fattened
so that the ink of the letters, like sleeping seeds
awoke and went wandering with the swell

When we returned, the book was perched
like Noah's ark upon the sodden staircase
having found a little freedom of its own
it had wandered about and came to rest
with spine split and the leaves laid bare
the damp pages were now empty yellow

Far downstream near the pull of an eddy
a lone deer paused to drink, tasted poetry
walked into the woods, leaving Lorca's lines
pressed in small footsteps neath the leaves