New World (Poetry)

Few were left once swelling seas had risen
and swallowed up the cities one by one;
the ocean crept across the plains towards us
and claimed dominion as the red-eyed sun
grew to fill our watery horizons,
we took to rafts and drifted with the tides
that dragged us like lost victims from Atlantis,
praying God would make the floods subside.

Looking down, dim roofs and towers dwindled
as water levels rose with currents fed
by melting polar ice, then weather systems
brought violent storms which added to our dead.
Afterwards we floated, sails in tatters,
our numbers down and everyone afraid,
sat gazing at the glassy sea in silence,
resigned to fate, the final penance paid.

Becalmed beneath a sky too clear for comfort,
each waited for Death's callous scythe to fall
as hunger gnawed and thirst raged like a demon
and madness gnashed its teeth to threaten all.
A shout went up: we strained in one direction,
squinting at a blur - a distant spire
flashing like a lighthouse through the sunset -
a metal cross reflecting orange fire.

We rowed until our arms hung weak and shoulders
screamed a protest but we paddled on,
frantic in the slowly fading twilight
to reach the spot before our chance was gone.
The waters lapped the slopes of some strange mountain,
we crawled ashore and named this unknown place
Paradise, believing we'd been chosen -
the last survivors of the human race.