Flood

The house is flooded,
and all you can do
is hum a childhood
song, tongue a half-
hearted half tone now
and again, let one sign
escape your bible mouth.
The place is ruined, wet
through, and wine glass
splashes ring silver bells
every time they tumble
to the floor. Your fine
distractions are soused
and only stare stupidly
as you run a finger
along their gilt edges,
or turn their sodden
pages. They are mourning
for this washed up hour,
when the clocks spit
apologies and bow, then
realise their rust, and
stammer into silence.