Some nights, I can't sleep
so, I go out walking
following the river
in my discomfort and anxiety
All too aware 
of where we're heading
winding towards that war
no one can win

I pass bonfires of guitars
funeral pyres of pianos
strings all snapped
Art must be rationed out, now
There's a faded memory of a song
from long ago
that hopeless refrain, lilts
'these are our final days'

The cities seethe, swollen and diseased
remnant governments siphon off our blood
all the schools are barracks
hospitals lick flames from every window
Kids wear shrapnel like fast-food crowns
landmines pop like party balloons
Lorries scurry the broken masses
from one smouldering ruin to the next

A hatred crackles between the people
the rusted blade edge of civilisation
I feel helpless and heartbroken
panic surging behind closed eyelids
As humanity divides
the two sides meeting twice
once in their compromise
and again at the extremes

The river rushes ever higher
the floodplain quickly vanishes
I mourn the poetry of seasons
the grave of tenderness is washed downstream
I meet a woman, burying her daughter
From an old matchbox, I offer her
the thin stem of withered hope, I nurture
she waters it with her tears

“These are, these truly are 
our final days”

When we reach the river’s end
the night is at its darkest
just then a thousand suns light up
this crumbling northern hemisphere

Waking in my bed
I realise my dream
But is all this hell
still yet to come...?

[2023]