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  • zenaedwardsis

2027 & Thinking About Babies - Poem

Updated: Mar 24

Love and intimacy in a time of climate panic. Written by Zena Edwards©

you exhale, a comfortable mist of breath,

your DNA collected kaleidoscopic

in condensation on the bedroom windows

I am the first up with an Autumn day break

it opens a shivering song in my body

the coffee is good and strong

and the news bleats that crops are gone

due to climate change.

coffee is a sensitive plant.

the courtships of the seasons are blurs

of burning ember to steel ice grey

in the shortest of times these days

24 hours seem like an eventful tea break

A brash breeze bristles the tree tops in the garden, a breath born

from a jagged tower block of ice, at the mouth

of its mothering polar ice cap, a cracked molar, dramatically drops

a guiloutined gasp as it tumbled, thundered into the arctic waters

broke its back, and a gale galloped 25,000 miles across oceans

licking up the waters in fury, they smashed and sprawled

their saline cure over costal towns

carried in the mighty arms of hurricanes

named after our favourite family members

and once in a while, we, in bloated bellied cities

on moral high grounds with low thresholds for sobriety from jurassic flesh

once in a while, we lift our faces from the trough of consumerism

see clouds like bears and buffalo clash, gnashing teeth

we see them bite down on each other

bleed chemical rain as they shake their necks free

and we are naively impressed at the welts of lightning

but fail to see the great wounds

our high-rises and ignorance cause as they needle the blotching skies -

as we spend out of sync with the earths budget

till soon, her bile will be our crop

my Weetabix could be poison seed

me and you, we used to take walks in the park

contemplate the balance between

the city bustle and the rustle of grass

underneath our feet. Now, our eyes skimming

the city skyline at the top of Parliament Hill,

seeking the shrinking valuable green spaces

now our weekend love banter is full stats, facts,

and corporate responsibility, big bucks drowning under

Steven Hawkin's prediction of our 100 year mortality - our finality?

I nuzzle in your neck, you pull me close

"Don't worry, Lovelie," you say, and tell me about

you plan to build rafts from our bamboo futon bed base and

sculpt oars from the shed door

to row ourselves to other islands with more security.

“we'll all be refugees then," you said.

Then you take my hand

in answer to a beckoning memory

of one of the hottest summers of our love,

when doodles broke free from behind

the straight lines of your homework paper

to mountain bike, snowboard, hand-glide,

Egyptian camel ride. “I’m gonna do it!” you said,

with just 55p and fluff in your pocket

I had worked in the park kiosk and served you dark coffee

in the polystyrene cup upon which you promptly wrote your number,

told predictable jokes about dog owners looking like their pets, yaddah yaddah...

but it was the crease in one corner of your smiling eyes

distracted me well enough

from the brewing storm for 5 whole years

and it's this morning

this morning with a pomegranate fantail sky, wing-tipped silvery pearl

that the question of 'why procreate?' is on the lips of our minds

decades will pass, will we imagine our own extinction?

Or rehumanize the moment dismembered by the dissonance

You hug me from behind, and I watch your exhalation

Dare to dream the determined DNA of new days, new ways of being.




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