There, At the World's End

There, at the world’s end

we’ll stir tea with coffee spoons,

eat cress and blue-cheese sandwiches

in the fading afternoons.

We’ll conduct a choir of mermaids,

in the songs we always sang,

listening for the whimper,

for we dare not risk the bang.

There’ll be no Little Gidding,

and no cricket on the Green,

we’ll wish for parish broadsheets

and politely vented spleen.

Just beside the final shore

we’ll curse in fluent Walloon,

and watch the last of all humanity

idly pissing on the moon.