We watch them leave. Golden arches in the sky follow the tiny few on their way to a planet distant and all too unlike our own.
I take a breath and feel the carbon heavy on the air from distant fires. Anger is a poison, is what they say. Maybe. I don’t know if its the acidity in the petrichor or the rage that stings my eyes as I watch them go. Longing burns. In all likelihood they are casting themselves out into a void that will not embrace them with anything by the cold apathy of nature. And still I pang to go. To at least have some sliver of a chance. Here, what is written is certain. We cough as we disperse, the air toxic even this far from the city.
As the years slip by one into another, traditions degrade almost as fast as the people. At some point we stop counting where the threshold for one year is to another. We forget our holidays. Celebrations. The police are icons of terror. Distant wars grow closer. Gangs form out of governments. Soon all pretence of civility is gone and all that remains is what there always was; the Haves and the Have-Nots.
The seas grow more acrid. The air thicker. The sun warmer.
All I can do is find you. Across the ashes, I traipse. In time, I find you. You have forgotten me at first. It has been many years. Looks like you don’t have much left either. Just each other. At night we watch the smog in the sky and wonder what the stars look like beyond and who might still fling among them.
Paddy Dobson
13th January 2022