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.