On the ferry
you’re chastised
by a wide-eyed
island-hopping
Englishman
– bearded, like
Socrates –
for missing the
ancient towers
of Sifnos.
400 BC beacons
that flowered over
mountain ranges,
sent coded light to
distant neighbours –
stretched across
silver mines and
olive groves.
Smoking stars
warning of pillage
and siege:
prepare for
the worst.
He monologues.
Iran
Soil degradation
Bunkers
Devastation
Crop failure
Deadlock
Precious metals
Migration
Rational actors
Scarcity
The Endgame.
Despite it all,
he thinks
children might
come handy
in the apocalypse,
is hunting for
a wife,
rents out flats
in North-west London,
which, of course,
will soon
be submerged.
He wants
to tumble down
the rabbit hole
and you
smile politely,
recalling
last night’s tableaux –
you stopped behind
back-to-back
traffic, left the car,
walked up
the winding hill,
and, hands on hips,
glimpsed a lonely
body,
face down,
coat on,
in the middle
of the hair-
pin, became aware
of your fragile
exhalations
in the cooling air,
waiting and waiting
for the ambulance
to arrive.
