It came at last, the letting-go,
Up over the hill and down our street —
The end of time had, finally, been reached.
There was comfort in it, the worst happening

And it being of no consequence, since we were done for.
What did it matter if our digital photo frames were lost,
Our data-carrying devices? There was to be no cost
Since we were going under.

Two strange things: the dead were not truly dead —
When our backs were turned they danced among the trees —
And the tide kept battering the beach.
‘This is it,’ you said

As waters took the Co-op,
‘Drop everything. Why not get started?
The dead play a full part in it.’
Like looking straight through to the junk at the back of the shop

We were suddenly wise to death,
Understood for all our folly
That appearances must be maintained, if not eternally.
We took our latest breath.

The post Cataclysm appeared first on The Spectator.