He leant over the bridge,
his book-heavy bag a dead-weight,
cutting his shoulder.
Plastics mottled the sedge:
lost votives and abandoned freight,
29,000 rubber ducks.
The world did end in fire, and in ice,
he has discovered –
meteors hit it and snow buried it.
This time will be no different, though economists
will say we could have fought our fate,
and the philosophers that intent matters.
He turned and left the bridge,
wondering if moulds and algae can anticipate
their new world order.
Rachel Lewis is a London-based poet. She can be found in several magazines, most recently Dawntreader and Kindling, and also unpredictably at live events in London. She spent last year producing cross-arts events as a Young Producer with Poet in the City and is currently working on a performance with the Roundhouse fusing spoken word and movement.