Tea Time In Our Everyday Apocalypse. A poem by C S Hughes

In the apocalypse, days pass like distant birds

We do not exactly know what kind

Only that, from here their flight is slow

On the wall, crocodile hands enfold

I suppose, for my amusement, another hungry prayer

Somewhere outside

A car rumbles in the clumsy quiet

Maybe Wednesday, maybe autumn

We sojourn at home, as if marooned in a now contemptuous land

The trees still harbour spring

We sometimes shake like leafs

Tremulous and tentatively attached

Courting déjà vus like raw easterlies

At least, for now, the kettle groans

A familiar, urgent groan

Its weight not quite as comforting, as it used to be


C S Hughes lives safely tucked away in country Victoria, Australia, with a cat and an historian. He has been a spice seller, a hobo, a book dealer, a watch fixer and now a poet, drawing little distinction between these pursuits. You can find him and more of his works on his Facebook page.

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