Figures are falling like dominoes, black and white, clackety-clack, streaming in lines across the floor of an abandoned factory. What did we used to make here? We used to make a difference, each of us adding our perfect piece that passed all understanding and passed all checks with flying colours. Oh, our Ford þu þe eart on heofonum, si þin nama gehalgod, where are those colours now? They’re gone to black and white, every one, with no room for nuance or cross-pollination. Go, tell the bees, or tell their abandoned hives, as thirteen species disappear and thirty-five more flicker and tip, the elegant motion of their ending making no sound amid the forgotten machinery. We once figured we held Heaven in a plastic flower, but that was before the Fall, and where’s our father figure now and, even if he was here, with is time cards and score cards, would he really give a fig?
Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
.