It was in the heart of May
that the salt armies rose from the ocean
and marched in with quiet determination
– the kind of determination fraught in things
made to carry out the will of another being,
like machine guns or cities.
They crawled in through the slits of air underneath windows and doors
to take over, to tighten crystal saline around our throats,
to numb us all.
Perhaps out of kindness, in preparation
for the war.
Next came the most terrifying thing-
a godforsaken, vast terrain where you shake from the panic of being alone
knowing that any minute now…
everything could change
It must be true –
the old saying about the calm before the storm,
because then came the winds with
black sails tied to their song:
ominous and set to drop bombs
In came the rain,
humbling away all the hard work of manmade days
down the rapids of muddy waterways.
The next morning,
on the glimmer of end-of-the-world rivers
and for an hour of crushed devastation,
in a small death of civilisation,
everything was innocent
and beautiful again.