Rungholt
Whirls of wicker and calico,
of turf and salt,
of cats and fish.
A bitter hit of a night.
The eyes of those
surprised by sudden depths
are bitter and open.
They drink sea under
the glass of a cracked tide,
in green tunnels of waves.
The water children flail under a sea moon.
The sea drags across the dark silt,
hear the bell, hear the bells.
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