Space is expanding fast
And the dark places pulse.
The tides rise or the ice
Sick of melting reverses.
It cracks and cuts
Into the land like skin disease.
People are turning into plastic
But that giant orange poppy
Is glorious as a kiss
And the lovers, her red dress
Billowing in a parachute swirl
As he pulls her into the dance
Sharp-suited, her resistance
A bluesy show, know only this
and tomorrow, and for now
tomorrow is going their way.
Looking back from some distant excavation
they’ll find in a cave under the rubble
tweets, a blog or two, the text fading in the light.
They’ll study them with wonder and say
‘They were primitive but they made these marks’
and will puzzle over the jottings on water.
They’ll know how it ended, the fire and the ice
‘But why did they stop’ they’ll ask,
those curious algorithms, ‘using stone and papyrus?’
The streets and swamps of this festive town
are awash with lights and homeless children.
The Circus is here and hired clowns spin
a dizzy web of drink and fun
over the bodies of sleeping men
till the tide goes out and daylight creeps in.