(a poem written ten years ago, about a different part of the world)
Looking for dry ground,
he quarters the fields
but the flood plain here
could swallow an army
and suck birds from the sky
His unnatural boat
crawls from lane to lane
obeying speed limits
colliding with the unknown
something moving under water
It is too late for retreat:
strategies have gone down
and do not resurface:
a new landscape is being formed –
grey islands taking shape
There are rumours of different tides
retrenchment
new offensives
brave new worlds
cures for drowning
Looking for dry ground
he searches the old maps
the front lines
the ways home, seeking
the infinitesimal edge