11 January 2018

The Day that Donald Trump Dies


The sun will still rise
And somewhere clouds will rain.
Light will seep through the cracks
Of the morning.
Again.

Lilies on ponds will open whitely,
Brainless,
Exposed to the unseeing sky,
Painless.

Fish will spiral through oceans,
Unblinking
Or shimmer in bubbles of glass,
Unthinking.

Lions will doze beneath swoopings
Of finches
And dusk-gloom will deepen,
Unhindered,
By inches.

And they will know nothing
As they do their rising,
Their raining,
Their seeping and blooming,
Their swimming and dozing,
Their swooping,
Their glooming...

Over this better,
This ever so slightly better
Earth.

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