I travelled to a level land
Past sleeping towns with names of sand:
+++++++Now they are gone.

The polders from the marshes won,
The houses made of brick not stone:
+++++++Raise no alarm.

The linseed mill with icy arms,
The whitewashed churches purged of charms
+++++++Evade our look.

The beeches smooth as vellum books,
The storks and blackbirds, doves and rooks
+++++++Are rare as rare.

The coffee urns, the huis-vrouw cheer,
The biscuits furled like the New Year:
+++++++The guests are late.

Bronze dagger, pin and carcanet,
Twice-strangled girl rescued from peat
+++++++Bright waves obscure.

The tower wet with widows’ tears,
The lion weltered in cold lairs
+++++++Cannot be traced.

I hear the cries from each high place
As it rose up, victorious:
+++++++The rampant sea.

The past is new, the future old;
Who can say now what rhymes are told
+++++++In this drowned world?

Critic and poet Justin Quinn examines the poem.