The end of the world
Will not be fast
No explosions
No kind, quick finish.
Biblical and spectacular.
Look out the window
Of your climate-controlled
House.
And witness it now
As the birds sing
The sun shines
And pop music plays on the radio
An apocalypse is happening
With every straw found
In the gullet of an aquatic bird,
With every metre of greying coral
With every striking off the list of
Another extinct species.
A rheumy bloom is spilling
Edging forward and encroaching
The planet looks sick
A vulnerable
Preciousness, pleading
And we pull down the shutters
Don the Aviators
Put our hands over our ears and sing
La la la la la
And enjoy the mild weather.
It’s easy to ignore.
Listen little human
Who has inherited the world,
You are entitled to nothing
This gift of our evolution
Has rendered us maniacs
Killing, marauding, pillaging
Taking.
When we have come to our senses
Too late,
And the leavings of the party are strewn
We maniacs will expect the Earth to
Open her arms to the prodigal son
Allow us to prostrate ourselves
Demand forgiveness
Bandage gashes
Sing a lullaby.
Too late.
I fear,
Too late.
Will we be orbiting flotsam
Universal waste
Washed up,
Guilty?
I pray there is time.
But I’m frightened
That there isn’t.
I look down
At my perfect five year old
And look for the answer.
And know there is always
Hope at the bottom of
Pandora’s Box.
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