Islands

The years tip and roll
swell like waves, sea-green smooth.
And we, surfers on time
wobble aboard the precarious foam
until the waters close about our heads.

Ten thousand years ago
blue ice-melt oceans rose
and flooded eyes, mouths, cities
leaving only flotsam myths
which drifted down the generations.

And my grandcestors too
are sunken, traceless, in unnavigable wastes
leaving not a photo, ring or pipe
not a chipped tea-cup they touched
not desperate grafitti on a wall.

But, breasting from the stilly waters
rising craggy with noise
tales of themselves with pounding hearts
ozone-clad islands, wheeling gulls,
sharp grass beneath bare feet
stories which shout their lives.