The sky unbuckled at the rim where thunder crowned the plain,
And from the loam, the river rose with judgement in its reign.
It leapt the banks where cotton fed, and swept the homesteads bare,
And bore away the daughters’ song that once had lingered there.
No cradle sways, no echo sings beneath the shattered tree,
The river took the children’s song, and drowned what was to be.
Their futures, like the acorn’s dream, lie buried in the clay,
Where unborn sons and daughters sleep beneath the flood’s cold sway.
No bloom shall rise, no lineage walk, where once the children played,
The branch was severed in its spring, the root by wrath dismayed.
Yet blame not rain nor river’s path, for waters do not lie,
But mark instead what men now say, and whom they would decry.
Before the tide had found its peace, the scribes began to feed,
With bitter ink they traced their scorn upon the nation’s need.
They bartered grief for fevered speech, for votes and shallow praise,
While rescue boats through silence moved beneath the storm-wrung haze.
The crowd cried blame, not solace then, nor bowed to weep or pray,
But clamoured loud with sharpened tongues to curse the storm away.
Yet in the mire, the hands of kin, with boots and backs unbowed,
Moved swift to lift the broken young, unpraised, unsought, unvowed.
They asked no coin, they claimed no name, nor sought the poet’s line,
They worked for hearth and unseen oath beneath the thorn and pine.
The nameless saints of sodden roads, whose hands the weak did bind,
Who stood between the surge and soul, and bore the weight of kind.
So let not loss be turned to gain by those who never bled,
Nor grief be filed in party lines while children’s names are read.
Build not on blame but memory, and raise what storm laid low,
With mortar mixed from common cause, and beams of oak we know.
The flood has passed, but honour stays, and courage does not rot,
If we remember what we loved, and never what we’re taught.
Then carve this tale not just in stone, but pass it hearth to hearth:
That grief may feed not bitterness, but sanctify the earth.
For though the children’s song is stilled, the soil is not yet bare,
And from the loss of daughters’ dreams, may sturdier dreams repair.
So let the bells of burden ring, and let the rafters rise,
The river took, but gave us back the fire that never dies.
(By John Shenton)