A vision of the end

The mood ebbs, leaving gullies 

and crabs scuttling across the rocks 

of my future, whose horizon 

has been abandoned of light.

And the creepy-crawlies of the night 

wander in and offer their non-company;

the lighthouse of hope has been broken; 

the marauders of this coast, 

with a sharp aim and a sharper stone, 

have put out the light; 

the ships bat round on the waves, 

unsure what to do. 

Occasionally, a flare splits the sky like a jet-ski 

but the ships get no response to their calls 

to shore, where a virus has spread and  

left its dead cluttering the beach,  

cluttering the floors of stores, collecting dust. 

It’s too late and I have nothing to do  

but count the moments until mine comes.