London floods

Wrote this poem last year, based on a wierd dream.

Higher Ground

When the floods came it was slow, at first.
The water crept over the Southbank,
and people began to get wet feet
coming out of the theatre.
On the third day every road
out of London was blocked,
by cars crammed with luggage,
bedding pressed against back windows,
nervous pets digging claws
into children's thighs.
It was cold for March.
We watched them abandon the cars
as the heaters ran the batteries down
and the waters rose.
We thought we were safe on our hill.
After a week they were kicking down the doors,
pale hands reaching through broken glass
while we stabbed at their fingers
with kitchen knives.