You should have been born a verb.
Your roaring, scouring thrust
shoulder-charges rocks, roils over weirs,
flashes sheets of white muslin,
swallows run-off’s soup of silt.
The Celt’s hard river of stones.

Here the valley is V-shaped, hills
split by smash-zone faults. Small spits
of flood-plain drown in the storm.
Sandbags are futile as river rises
to first floor windows. On the canal
barges thrash among branches.

We play power games, raise walls,
craft culverts, drive you underground.
You purl deceptively tame over pebbles,
until geography, storm and gritstone
collude. Fast-tracked, deepened,
you accelerate. Discharged, you deluge.

Theresa Sowerby runs Real Live Poets, a Poetry Society Stanza group based in Manchester. She has won prizes for plays and poetry and been published in several magazines and online.