We may be writing the final chapter,
homologising the biosphere,
our gift to the planet - extinction
of the beautiful and the damned.
The whale’s song will be as likely as the mermaid’s,
and that is strange, since the water rises
inexorable as those grim sisters, death and doom.
“And the rain it raineth every day”
except, dear Bill, where it does not.
Our mob-cap ice cap well-reduced,
our warm winters will be wet,
we will shiver at furnished fires
and hear the crack of varnish
as we burn the once-valuable.
We will tell tall tales
of transport for all
which end in
comfort for none.
Children’s mouths will O
at talk of telephones
and wonder why
a selfie was.
We will explain the last butterfly,
blame its fluttering wings
for the tidal wave
and the ruin we have made
of our children’s future.
And they will curse us for it.