Abecedarian for a Fallen Planet

By Heather Chapman

After rains threw strange sensation into the ground, the

Birds hushed, muttered, forgot flight, then turned to

Carnivory. It was easy to see the lisping feathers as

Dissolution, initials of a larger destruction. The

Elm tree poised in the garden knelt and

Faltered: so did the oceans, so did the sky. The

Grandfather clock rang strange new times, guiding the

Heavens out of joint. Libraries turned

Insomniac – texts slipped out of hibernation,

Jilted their heroes. Each thought itself

Kind and savoured its rebeginning, even as chapters

Limped and shed vowels. Synonyms dropped hands.

Morals found alternative belief and leant symbol to

New gods: the red rose; the swan; the snow – all

Oversweet from rewriting. We thought this

Personification could lend the planet a

Quiet strength: lock its joints; grant it a

Resilience; a musical ear or an optimism, at least a

Superstition against its own ribs and ragged

Teeth. Instead it stood stunned in blue ink.

Underneath its paling sky we wished for a final

Verse, a kissing couplet. Even the alphabet

Waned and took to bed. None of the drugs took, the

X-ray showed an internal combustion, a

Yielding of strength. Some inherent fault in the

Zone which commanded flight.

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