The water's bobbing higher against the markers;

it's no longer safe to drive the underpass,

where we'd disturb the drowned body of a fox.
Having always dreamed the ocean would rise

and infiltrate the city by the cuttings

you hang steadily on the wheel, undiverted,
winging the car through to our house on the hill

where neglect gives the world high colours,

and faces splay with the weight of creation.
There we wait, you and I and the troupe

of motley players, doubting the fine skies,

expecting the flood to make us an island,
preceded perhaps by a long stream of beasts

seeking higher ground, and at last a golden light

shone on corpses, debris and the shrinking peak.