Flood levels

(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
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