Where Land is Rare


Heard the bells of the churches and cathedrals calling

‘neath the waves in sadness, sorrow and raw regret.

————-

I heard the bells of bicycles and front doors and a sound

of the clocks, that ticked away the rising waters of ice

———-

melt, as the sun’s strength grew, and indecisive leaders

tried, and Canute like, failed to turn the trespassing tide.

———–

I watched folk, weighed down with a silvery, fish catch,

as they carried their boxes up the fresh cut, cliff steps.

————

I laid a hand on my swelling tide of my own and felt

the hoped for baby tumbling beneath my trembling hands.

————

The heat of the sun bore down on us both and I turned

to return to the city, with its ancient walls, where windows

———-

looked once on hills; but now upon rising tumbling waves,

an ancient settlement. Where fish are plenty but land is rare.

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H

margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

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