The Maldives, the Tsunami, and Death Duty
A garland, greener than the aqua fringe
Around each island of its atolls, waits
Just barely in the ocean where they cringe
In memory of that wave. Its shade negates
The jewelled magic of the necklace where
It’s anchored to a sinking ocean floor.
Slow motion fate pervades the sunlight’s fair,
Warm winds. The islands’ lot is nothing more
Or less than Venice-certain, though the palm
There on the shore is singingly asleep
To any threat. Islanders are not calm
Off India or Italy. The deep
Awaits its chance to swallow. To beauty
Death attends with particular duty.