A rhyme for the nursery perhaps. . .
Earth bound down
to bomb blast shelters,
caught in sunlight
flicker falling,
filling out the open space,
between
the fight and flight—
dying in their ordered
thousands,
every name read out.
But who washed away to sea,
drawn to ancient harmony
rock ground mountains
tumbled, drowning,
took us in our hundred
thousands, caught
within the ocean’s rhythms,
currently without.
Who will sing this litany,
sing this harvest
of the sea, break and bring
it back to me
dressed in its own geography,
every name a shout.
