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.