a scientist on the radio
says in three decades  
a coastal town will      
be submerged in water.  
i picture seaside resorts
& promenades absorbed
& know the same fate
awaits this city, as sea
hungrily consumes
coast it looks to us,
our bones, our docks
& ports, parliaments
& courts, our isle added
to a pile of things extinct.
a future where children are
driftwood blown ashore
with foreign tongues
& dreams of sea;
reluctantly coming up
for air jealous of all the
creatures that get to
stay down there.

Your eyes so beautiful.
Your voice so lovable.
Your mind so fragile.
Your love so untouchable.

This high domed carapace
where the mind lives and moves
in and out of a present moment
of consciousness
within that jellied mass of brains.

Where all is relative and nothing stays the same
extended unintended memories to remind of love
pain or shame or happiness or the simple reminders of mortality.

Where we taste the bitterness of a lemon or choose the sweetness of a peach to eat
before its all too late and the taste of death on your tongue
tells your mind "this is the flavour of your last exhaled breath".

'We don't read or write poetry because it's cute.We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race.And the human race is filled with passion and feelings.And medicine,law,business,engineering..these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life.But poetry,beauty,romance,love..these are what we stay alive for.'
-Dead Poets Society

The willow hangs,
drapes the ground,
dances to a tune
unheard in the hum
of cars and lorries,
in the commotion of
people passing in a
hurry, barely noticing
anything more than the
phones tapped with
fingers & thumbs.
But I notice,
I see it all,
the dance on display,
the symbol of sanity
I need today.