Downpouring rain’s a meld
of air and earth:
thebrown Nith slip-streamed
over the flood banks,
the fields’ surge levelled
with its metal.
Wild night follows wild day follows wild night. Our garden arch is blowing away (chocked up now with a mighty stake). We've guy-roped the fruit cage. The sheep are skittish, and shake water out of their ears. And the Nith has burst its banks at Auldgirth, I reckon Dumfries will be going under by lunchtime.
Paul came home from London on the train last night and nearly got no further north than Lancaster, the station roof was blowing off at Penrith. Tv shows the sea at Maryport towering twice as high as the pier. Piers usually burn down, but this one is battling an opposite fate. Very apocalyptic.
Here's our garden pond in a relative lull this morning.