Pandora’s box by Fiona Martin

Photo by Caleb Woods on Unsplash
The end of the world
Will not be swift
No explosions
No kind, quick finish.
Biblical or spectacular.
Look out the window
Of your climate-controlled
Home.
And witness it now
As the birds sing
The sun shines
And pop music plays on the radio
Behold
The apocalypse is happening
With every straw found
In the gullet of an aquatic bird,
With every metre of bleached coral
With every striking off the list of
Another extinct species.
A rheumy bloom is spilling
Edging forward and encroaching
The planet looks sick
A vulnerable
Preciousness, pleading
And we pull down the shutters
Don the Aviators
Put our hands over our ears and sing
La la la la la
And enjoy the mild weather.
It’s easy to ignore.
Listen little human
Who has inherited the world,
You are entitled to nothing
This gift of our evolution
Has rendered us
Maniacs
Killing,
marauding,
pillaging
Taking.
When we have come to our senses
Too late,
And the leavings of the party
are strewn
We maniacs will expect the Earth to
Open her arms to the prodigal child
Allow us to prostrate ourselves
Demand forgiveness
Bandage gashes
Sing a lullaby.
Too late.
Will we merely be
orbiting flotsam
Universal waste
Washed up,
Guilty?
What will they think of us
In our parallel universe
Where better choices were made?
I pray there is time.
But I’m frightened
That there isn’t.
With the sun on his head
With a soft breeze tickling his curls,
I look down
At my perfect five-year-old
And search for the answer.
And know there is
Mercifully
Humanly
Hope
At the bottom of
Pandora’s Box.