Ambrym
Hundreds of feet below its smoke-stained rim,
Lies the shifting magma; a lake of fire.
A lava-filled isle devoid of its peak;
Active long before the Nazarene’s birth.
Everything melts that touches the liquid,
And the edges form densely packed barriers
Bright red and orange claw the pitch black walls
During new, green dawns and foggy, grey dusks.
Yet inhabitants go about their lives.
They watch their children swim in island pools,
And carve five foot faces of their old kin
Out of many rough-barked coconut trees.
Knowing any moment might call for flight
From smoke, from flame, from destruction itself.
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