the trainline is damaged at Dawlish

This is how I imagine my death now.
As slow and as sudden, as if by titanic
I am sinking.
Silverware, slips of marital cloth
(once smooth satin) stolen away already.

They left us a bed, at least, and electrics

to adapt, with spirit, to rising levels
of silent pressure. Hushed river (was road)
feels a way around the curb, the camera,
the concrete apology coming too late.
We were not city. No business
in the country. Too slick savages,
'side farmers, seeking sky for red warning.
And some proverbs are simply not worth saving.
I think we are amphibian
by force, and excited at last, by the press,
the release, when water rushes to recover flats

-through windows-

and fills us, to the brim, to bursting.
Washed out, passed the point;
thank heavens I am insured.