The rain, it pours like cats and dogs; the ground begins to flood,
As rivers swell, detritus marks the tidemark on the mud.
The hallowed swathes of England’s turf with urban rubbish covered,
And fields of winter wheat or spuds with dirty water smothered.
At home the search for scapegoats start with pundits casting blame,
And single issue pressure groups who seek the gleam of fame.
We whinge about the government or farmers’ new laid drains
And whine about ‘The water Co’ and ever blocked up mains.
But something clear now seems forgot as hot our rage we vent,
As waves of rivers’ bursted banks wash Somerset and Kent.
We might ask why the ground on which our new built homes are set.
Though low and by the waters edge was never built on yet!
Our patios and roofs and roads and carparks seem to cloak
This once soft land now covered up, no longer free to soak.
The isle on which our lives are led is blessed with lots of rain,
Do we think what happens once it gushes down the drain?
But most of us can play a part and help to sort this strife
For some its part of daily grind and chosen way of life
For others maybe common sense will find the balanced way
But everywhere, a bit of thought might help to save the day.