Images of Land

August. Dry dawn
strung along low streets.
Men creeping
in the fashion of monkeys.

All I could think of to say
was that in fifty years
all this will be underwater.

So much is ending.
For years I wished and wished
for a tree house.
There was so little money.

But the meal!
The meal each day
and love.

When the water comes
and buries this place
there will be things
greater than we can know.

We need not know them,
you and I.

We need only hold
before our faces these few,
these images of land,

and this, my dear,
birdsong.