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Rated: E · Poetry · Cultural · #2110289
A poem about the damage caused by the 2015 boxing day flooding in Elland, Halifax, UK.
The trees came down,
the houses went up,
the fields were flattened,
replaced with tarmac and concrete.

Money was tight,
corners were cut,
the waterways were not dredged,
the drains were not maintained.

For thirty days,
for thirty nights,
the rain fell,
the water table filled.

The storm came,
the wind blew,
the rain volleyed,
the valley became a funnel.

The streams turned into rivers,
as did the roads,
and the fields,
so did peoples homes.

The devastation was real,
it had been predicted,
but those in the Town hall,
had chosen to ignore.

Elland bridge was broken,
the road had sunk,
the stone had gone,
washed away by the flood.

Swiftly the council was called
but it didn't want to know,
like celebrities they visited,
but only to pass the blame.

At first nothing happened,
except for a few cones,
and a tape to block the road.

The hard work started,
the Canal and River trust,
a charity no less,
contracted out the work.

Fourteen months,
nine weeks work,
five million pounds later,
the bridge was almost ready.

The council man returned,
with his apron off,
his hand shaking,
he smiled and took the credit,
even finding a baby to kiss.

The people saw straight through him,
as crooked as the pavement,
one old lady said.

The bridge isn't yet finished,
open for pedestrians,
the road is blocked,
waters impassible.

Oh how we want,
oh how we need,
the bridge to be fixed,
the road to reopen,
and for the pier to disappear.

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