When old trees from this earth are being torn.
Hallowed trees. Brought to their knees.
The water rises, vast and musclebound, like a beast.
The devil—it would seem—is having a feast.
Sneering devil! Its horizon will eventually level.
Be the calm in the eye of the storm
When settled homes, with full sunlight, greet the next morn.
Comfortable homes. Now, catacombs
The water rises, salty and gagging, but it will subside,
Leaving many fish—exposed underbelly—that’ve died.
Valiant fish. Once young, and mannish.
Be the calm in the eye of the storm,
For from the detritus, a new society is born.
Political detritus. Old trees, mannish fish and leveled homes in the worn rocks below us.
photo and poem by S.A. Bort / 6 July 2016