This house is cool and quiet.
with swallows under the eves
and a soft green garden outside each window.
oil slides onto the shore
creeping into the tiny secret spaces
between feather barbs,
between grains of sand.
Daddy will never come home from the coal mine,
Daddy will never come home from Iraq,
Daddy will never fish those waters again.
Somewhere else the deluge washed the house away.
That place wasn’t a flood zone, the people said,
but everywhere is a flood zone if it rains enough, and
they were happy to save the baby pictures.
somewhere in Africa,
five year old children
have never seen rain.
The sea road washes out,
the fish swim north,
and old farmers stand baffled in an unknown season called change.
even here outside this cool and quiet house,
the air is changed.
This is not is not far in the future.
This is not somewhere else.
This is you and me.
Wherever we are now.