Where Land is Rare

I stood on the cliffs and looked out to blue, blue sea,

the bobbing boats with lines and nets in the bounty.

——-

An innocence spread out on the tortured ruins below

the rippling waves where we came too    late, too       slow. 

Heard the bells of the churches and cathedrals calling

‘neath the waves in sadness and 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 rolling fields; now upon rising tumbling waves.

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