To Think Of Me Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Sunken, the plentiful land records itself:
New numbers and new scars in the flesh, tattoos of windmills
Recorded across the field,
And children lost on their way home: the fire too shy to ignite
The bush,
Stones in the clutches of rattlesnakes snuffed by the snouts
Of hounds before the remedy of the storms,
And all of the long phrases too far away from home
To account for the actions of the tourists
Who threw them just to get a jubilee out of the waves or anywhere:
The forts that stood there for so long, too proudly-
Eaten away by the sea- the dead prostitutes beneath them,
Buried beneath the canon balls- too young and too deeply
To be remembered by you,
To think of me.