We watched the swelling of the water
Hoping that this would be the day the river
Would burst its banks.
We were young, did not remember
The stench of mud soaked carpets,
The grandmother, driven
From her cosy fireside,
The aunt, her belly nine months swollen,
Her arms full
Of wriggling, blind pups.
We were young, and wanted only
The unaccustomed wonder
Of rowing boats
in Rhondda streets.
Note: ‘Bridge’ prompt, second poem.