Poems by Mary Cresswell

“There’s some funny winds out there,”
said the boatman, scratching his neck.

The first easterly (ever) roared down,
laying unprepared trees on their backs.

Deep contour troughs of rain collected
like overhead ponds and then dumped

gallons too thick to see through, too thin
to handle hydro dams in the south.

Grey-green children howled at the door
dripping with things that used to matter

yelling for more, and more, and more
while the rivers ran upside down.