Death of an Island

I grew up on this tiny little island.
It seemed big then but grows smaller every day.
The sea is creeping ever closer to our village.
We are but a postage stamp on the map of the world, a tiny piece of jigsaw.
The end of our world is nigh.
Do I mind?
A younger generation has been flocking to other places for years.
When I return I peer into the faces of those remaining.
I know no one. They all seem so old, holding onto an outmoded way of life.
I never wanted to eat fish every day and scrape a living here.
Now there is little choice. Leave or be engulfed by the ever encroaching waters.
No paradise island this.
An historical error of judgement.
The indigenous population killed off by the contagious diseases of the incomers. Misguided, misplaced loyalties.
And the young have gone.
The waves win.