Long ago, before angels learned how to fly,

there were no churches here or palaces,

no embankments or emporia, only

islands of marram grass and common reeds

across the vast and brackish lagoon

in the shallow waters of the gulf.

After angels grew wings, the people arrived,

each clan choosing its piece of an island.

They watched the mainland for invaders –

and, in winter, the sea for high tides.

They cut the reeds and grasses, flattened

the earth, and drove in timber pilings –

oak, alder, pine – to make foundations.

And, in time, emporia were built,

embankments laid, palaces commissioned,

and scores of churches consecrated.

Their navy patrolled the gulf. They invented

a siren to warn the people of high tides.

Though now there are angels throughout the city –

flying, standing, kneeling, in glass, on canvas,

larger than life, in gorgeous raiments

and sumptuous colours – winter’s tides

are higher than ever, covering

embankments, inundating emporia,

palaces, churches as if they were nothing.