THEN

only those with

the presence of mind

to kick-off heeled shoes

can possibly hope to survive;

our lungs will be bursting

within quarter of a mile

and before reaching fifty feet,

but the deafening roar

will push us on –

crossing the dual carriageway

before the wave cuts us like cavalry,

having sluiced through

old quay and town bridge.

If we get to the other side,

there’s impenetrable gorse

and inhospitable heathers

masking treacly, quicksand bogs,

but waters may rise slower

there, where steep ascents

beneath ancient walls

have long proved

unassailable.

Crud builds like

stinking matchwood

as ooze travels on.

We’ll build a cairn

of lifeless phones,

a hilltop grave for

our perinatal century;

learn to live on blade and berry,

and sleep with mouths open

to catch the midnight dew;

to make love

like there’s no tomorrow

as our only means of escape.