Poetry for the end of the world

-RW

[apocalypseanthology]

Days since departure: seven hundred and ninety six

there's no such thing as a secret

within these walls

Small Town Gossip amplifies

echoes

down the corridors

and for every friendly listening ear

there are five

who spy

for their masters

despite it all I hoped

that I had kept my heart hidden

and for your part at least

it seemed to work

too busy to notice

the lingering glance

or my hand touching

yours when we

walk

but this train has ears

and these Tracks

Talk.

[apocalypseanthology]

Days since departure: two thousand seven hundred and sixty nine

She looks like she smells like cinnamon

And kohl

And earth

She moves like a wounded animal

Never letting me close enough to know for certain

I want to touch my hand to her face

Trace the scars

I watch her sometimes

Such a beautiful broken thing

And I think of you

It hurts my heart that every time her eyes meet mine

I'm surprised to find them brown

So I try to forget

You and her and him

But I feel like I might drown.

[apocalypseanthology]

Days since departure: eight hundred and forty three

It doesn't matter how many times

You tell me that the water is osmotically pure

The cows' diet is nutritionally complete

The bags are vacuum sealed

Because even in my favourite mug

Habitually teabag-water-milk

Never sugar

It doesn't taste the same

And I long for the curative property

Of Yorkshire Tea

United Utilities water

And green top milk left on the doorstep.

[apocalypseanthology]

Days since departure: nine hundred and twenty seven

I thought you might taste

Like the sweetest plum in summer

Soft and sweet and fragrant

Longed for through the seasons

But somehow you are oil and grit

Still I drink you in like lemonade

Like ice cubes on my tongue

And you burn me inside out

And make me hungry for the harvest.

[apocalypseanthology]

Days since departure: three hundred and one

There is a music to this place

A beat

A hum

The tap of feet

The thrum of the market

The lead vocalist arms raised

Sequins in her hair

Dancing on a table top

And sometimes

The song roars around us

And other times

It whispers softly

Stay alive for me.

[apocalypseanthology]

Days since departure: ninety seven

After the crash

I stayed in Kendal

I had nowhere else to go

And no-one else to be

The house was cold and empty

Without their voices to fill it

And loneliness crept up on me

Like weeds.

And so when the money finally came

- A brown enveloped cheque that

Somehow tried to say "here is their lives' worth in sterling" -

Our little home became a business

And voices filled the rooms again

Hot breakfasts

Sausage and egg and salted butter

And the smell of laundry

And - for the summer at least -

I could pretend I was less alone.

Then one winter

A silk blend suit but no umbrella

A single suitcase and a South American cigar

We sat fireside and reminisced

And before he left he said to me

Darling Ruth

You must know you're not beholden

To their ghosts

Their souls are gone

You do not owe this old house loyalty.

And so I followed him

Silk and cigar

To the end of the earth and beyond.

[apocalypseanthology]

Days since departure: two thousand nine hundred and twenty one

The funny thing about all this

Is the choice I made echoes so much

My time aboard this train.

I am choosing to live

And in doing so I might be choosing to die

But staying in place is not an option

Since you chose him

And I let you.

So love each other deeply

(Like we never could)

Face the track bravely

And maybe, love, we'll meet again

Beneath a sunny sky.

These pages I leave for you

By way of a goodbye.

[apocalypseanthology]

Days since departure: eighty two

Perhaps He likes the mystery

Mistrusting

Chosen ministers of order

To even see His face

-strange-

And yet who are we to question

Him orchestrating

Conducting behind the conduits

Biosafety protocols be damned

If we cannot dam the flow of

Followers who want to know

What's happened to the Man.

[apocalypseanthology]

Days since departure: three hundred and sixty six

There's a name for the people

For the bodies

And I hear myself say it as if it's not bitter on my tongue

As if in the depths of the night I am not jealous

As if courage wasn't the only thing between them and me

As if I don't still find myself bringing a hand to my throat

Feeling blood pulse and breath rush

As if there aren't a thousand more of us watching their shrouded bodies

And I hear myself say it and I laugh

As if I didn't weep

For these ungrateful dead

And we who did not die.

[apocalypseanthology]

Days since departure: two hundred and seven

The thought occurs

That I should hate you

But there's been so much heartache

That such a banal thing as hatred

Has almost been forgotten

Instead all there is

Is a question

Or more a sense of confusion

As to why your dark hair

Meets me in my dreams

Why your green eyes meet mine

Across the room

And I can't remember

Why the thought is there at all.

[apocalypseanthology]

Days since departure: six

I could say I am here

By chance or providence or fate

But I know I cannot bear the weight of them

Seven billion or thereabouts

I suppose the individuals, the hundreds and the thousands, don't matter

When the scale is so obscene as this

Which should not be as comforting as it is

Knowing that we are a speck, a dot,

Three thousand souls alive

Amongst the horde of frozen bodies

With nothing to do but stay the course

And we

As I said before

Don't matter.

[apocalypseanthology]

Days since departure: zero

Jubilation

Order

Stewardship

And so to bed

Daring not to sleep

Lest this could be a dream

And instead

Beholding his creation

One thousand and one cars long.