Think of me as the drowned village,
my people safe – the fiddler,
and the midwife. No old man taps
his cane down the street, no woman
runs out to her neighbour. Jugglers
and acrobats pass me by.
I have no lilacs, nor goats,
nor fields of wheat. Just water,
like the sound of an organ.
My stones may loose their paint, doors loll
on unmended hinges. Reeds laze
in my parks. My broken walls
are cathedrals. Those are waves, not
hands, that cling and slip on the beach.
I know only a rippled sky,
the distant Morse of sunlight.