The Water Table

The house is floating on water rain-water, seepage off fields, rivers, thaw, the eventual sea. Maybe we are all floating.
The house like a boat moored
in this one particular place
sails through days and nights when we are glued to the t.v.
The water table is rising. Soon typewriter and microwave, chairs, teapots, family-pictures will float up into the trees
I left, for what could you do?
Fields with crops rotting in the ground and the blue edge beyond the road
was where the lake rose and jinked.
I'll tell you, even the hills were flooded. Then I heard about a neighbour
who couldn't take it anymore
and threw himself into the old mill-race. So sometimes I see myself looking
and I may as well be part of the rain falling and there is no end to it.
and come to rest, like offerings around a holy well, glistening. Already I have seen the ground swell and foundation cracks settle.
Page 106, Poetry Ireland Review Issue 28