He determined his human race undone.
Read in Nostradamus how Ibiza’s
prevailing winds would shun Armageddon.
Sailed through Mediterranean breezes
to that island shaped like a floating frog.
Landed a mountain farm caressed by high
pine forests, his home of petrified logs
and ancient Phoenician stone nurtured by
a clear spring singing twenty feet away
from his door. No computer. No TV.
No radio. No cell phone. Thin pine’s sway,
cricket’s and pipit’s calls his reverie,
he views stars, far lights of Vila’s center,
no longer fearing nuclear winter.
Roger Armbrust
August 25, 2007
