Dénouement

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 earthquake

and the ruin we have made

of our children’s future.

And they will curse us for it.