Tsunami

Skin bakes, slick with sweat, as I toil atop God's mission,
tacking wooden shingles in countless rows overlapping
upon a church roof, opposite a steeple rising into azure sky.
This wooden tower is home to three brass bells cast in fires
quenched long ago, shipped across half the world.
Once burnished, now tarnished with Pacific's salt breath,
they ring with Angel choir voices -- baritone, alto, soprano,
singing verses both joyful and sad, carried unhindered
from ocean's shore, across village of wood and thatch,
to jagged mountains rising steeply green behind me.
Villagers gather to bell songs each sabbath morn,
receive wisdom through Father, God's priest, face withered,
gaze focused upon the Son's broken body, ruby blood.

God's house stands upon a gentle hill, covered with palms,
sloping to a criss-cross of unpaved village streets below.
Homes built of interlaced tree branches, thatched roofs
bleached by the sun, stand neatly in rows along each path.
Small brown feet march in impromptu parades, as children
stir dirt into clouds blown clear upon ocean breezes.
Among them toddles my daughter, laughing, marching,
singing rhymes beneath the palms, leaves whispering secrets
for ears still young enough to hear and understand.
Between gusts, their laughter and shouts cross streets,
reaching the sun-baked roof upon which I stand.
Soon I will return home, rejoin her and my wife for dinner,
cool shade beneath a roof creaking to twilight wind.

Beyond bustling village shops, palms give way to sand,
white and shimmering, beach speckled with beachcombers,
clam diggers, conch hunters, brown canoe hulls lying
side-by-side, like fish sunning themselves on the sand.
Waves roll ashore, endless, rank upon rank, turquoise waters,
flecked with salt foam, fluffy crests curling forward, pounding
white coral sands, ground fine as talc by breaking waves.
Wave ripped waters, exquisitely blue, surround my island world,
stretch across earth's immense face, curving beyond the horizon.
Fishing boats bob upon waves, masts creak to wind-swollen sails.
Hulls overflow with fish, surrounded by flocks of birds
squawking, quarreling for silvery scraps, as they glide through
blue sky, mingling with nimble clouds racing west to east.

As the sun arcs across ocean splendor, subtle darkness appears
upon the horizon -- a swelling, horizontal band of water approaches.
Bruised ocean shadow, blue-black beyond ocean blue waters.
Fishermen stand mesmerised, transfixed upon pitching decks,
waters darkening further, shadowed by some invisible cloud above.
A shining wall of water rises, a gargantuan wave clearing aside swell
like tide pool ripples, the mammoth curl, miles to sea, lined with foam.
Downward, thundering, the wave breaks beyond submerged reefs.
Boats leap shoreward, fishermen shouting, flailing, diving overboard,
a distant rumble reaching my ears, roof humming beneath my feet.
The wall of foam, roaring white, rises further, slows nearing shore,
overshadows the fishing fleet, hulls rolling, capsizing, shattering.
Boat fragments vanish into chaos, my screams overwhelmed.

From this rooftop vantage, I shout warning to those fleeing, quickly
raked beneath forty feet of death's wrath, clearing the beach.
Waters rage across lines of palms, foam ragged and brown with earth.
Time stands still, my people streaming from huts and shops,
childrens' screams from town streets, quaking, then consumed.
My wife appears below, waves frantically and is swept away, face vanishing
into the depths, as towering waters engulf and crush our home.
Church bells ring to life, jangles, bongs, ugly clangs terrible
to my ears, flood waters slipping below the mission church steps.
A deafening roar, waters swallowing village, cries of terror silenced,
shattered wood surfacing, floating huts dashed against trees.
Several villagers struggle amidst the flood, hang onto flotsam
rolling inland upon Catastrophe, soon clashing with mountain slopes.

The flood calms, wrecked homes, boats, trees afloat in waters opaque
with mud, bodies silent with death rising to the surface.
Red dresses, infant blankets, yellow sashes, children.  Many...
My eyes blur with tears, cheeks awash, as my cry ascends to Heaven.
Why did God allow this?  We are a good and faithful people.
My daughter lies submerged, eyes closed, lungs still with water.
My Beloved wife, gone, eyes frozen open in terror, her limbs shattered.
I remember her musical voice, warm embrace, gentle touch,
black hair soft upon my skin as she smiled, gazing upon our child.
I weep for my child, struck down in childhood, overtaken by
the ferocious waters, swept away with her friends into the trees.
The village priest, consoling the ill when disaster struck, floats
upon stagnant waters, his white vestments torn and brown with mud.

I turn from village ruins to the ocean, now a tumultuous
wall of retreating foam, island flood waters lingering behind.
Soon, white sands, normally submerged, are exposed, strewn with
boat wreckage, flopping silver fish glimmering, drowning in air.
Outward the waters progress, brown face sinking toward coral reefs.
I turn back to death, destruction spread out below, as I find the
church roof ladder, toppled, snapped in half by the flood.
A boy's cry for help rises above the fading roar of ocean withdrawal,
two women screaming, one bloodied, clutching a silent infant,
men shouting atop palm trees, unscathed among coconuts, leaves.
I search vainly for a safe path of descent, to reach survivors,
those injured, or needing consolation in their final moments.
Incomprehensible devastation spawns confusion.

I look to sea, behold a monster rising, a dark swelling upon the horizon.
Godwave rears up, breaks upon the horizon, waters climbing skyward.
My limbs freeze, eyes draw shut, unwilling to witness death's approach.
A deafening rumble, all light fading, and I look once more.
A foam wall, a hundred feet tall, eclipses the afternoon sun.  Day to night.
I fall upon my knees, the ground shuddering, roof buckling, bells ringing,
requiem for God's house collapsing.  The dirge ends, suddenly,
as Death's black ocean jaws pluck loose the bells, drowning them.
The wave topples the steeple, rolls thundering along a splintering roof.
No fear now, only a quiet peace, as I whisper a prayer, to rejoin
my wife, my child, my Go--

Scott Speck
07/30/98