In early morning, after rain,
the slope- that had protected the village
from the cold northerly wind-
began moving.
In vain I tried to rescue my computer
but it melted
dripped websites
and unsent emails
as the massive slope
pressed up against the house,
which screamed in agony,
I jumped out of the window.

When earth stopped sliding,
I looked back at a peaceful, flat landscape
and it didn’t seem like anyone had ever lived here.
From moist soil
human fingers,
like fat worms,
stuck up
and birds began pecking.
At the spot, where my cottage was buried
an oak stood.
If I didn’t knew better
I would have thought
it had been there
for a hundred years.