A Taste of Apocalypse
Such stillness in the air. The attic window
is a cupped ear set to alert the house to subtle
shifts in atmosphere: auguries; signs; any tiny
notice of cataclysmic change. All it amplifies today
is a lone jay’s irritated screech, computer hum,
the clap of pheasants, a buzzard’s mew.
The search engine finds a sub-thread
arguing potential plurals of Apocalypse.
It seems so far off–the ending of all things–
even in this raw valley where every human life
but mine has felt like it was gone for good
in days too formless and dispiriting to count.
I play the list over in my mouth. Apocalypse.
Apocalypses. Apocalypti. Apocalypsis. The last
tastes good, like punctuation on the tongue;
three dots of flavour denoting things hidden,
destructions left unsaid. Almost as if
the real end will come from the margins,
unannounced and slipshod, ignoring prophets,
gods and silver-spoon-fed men who dream of power
as they roll on their backs like beetles battling
over balls of dung. Enough. I spit Apocalypse
out of the window. It transforms, wheels away.
A battered falcon that cannot turn for crows.
Adam Horovitz is a writer, performer and teacher who lives in a semi-wild corner of Gloucestershire. He has published three collections of poetry, a memoir and assorted pamphlets. He appeared on Cerys Matthews’ album We Come From the Sun (Decca, 2021).