Flood time

My father told me how
when The Wandle flooded
their garden disappeared
and one of next door's chairs
became snagged on their fence.

He and his father watched
a neighbour's shed float by
and bric-a-brac turn in
where once their gate had been.
A tree was something new.

The flood had come at night
and not until the dawn
did they see Rags, the dog
marooned upon the chair,
a rag doll in its mouth.

My father watched his dad
set off along the path,
the water round his chest,
then saw him disappear.
Dad dived into the flood.

The water had removed
the manhole's covering.
His father had stepped in
and now was tightly wedged.
My father pulled him out,

then struck out after Rags.
They often tug-of-warred
with Nanny's old clothes prop,
so when it floated by
he tempted Rags to try.

Rags held it with his paws,
the doll still in his mouth.
Dad towed him to the house.
His father became ill,
swallowing the water,

but Rags still claimed the doll,
would not relinquish it.
He'd take it everywhere,
its dress tooth-marked and torn,
its face like one who'd drowned.

..................................................

The Wandle is a tributary of the Thames. Some stretches are culverted, and have been for many years. In places the diversions are underground, but it has never been fully tamed, and in certain conditions it is apt to bubble up again as though demanding its old course back. The floods of my poem occurred in Wandsworth. Alas, I don't know the year, though obviously before my parents were married.