Poetry

After the eclipse

The Sun perished slowly, almost
As if it were reluctant; as if, after
Four-point-six billion years alight,
It didn’t want to leave,
Not even for a moment. I watched
Through wise and wicked lenses, saw
The Promethean flame, the Aztec god,
Consumed by an incongruous darkling edge
That seemed to me like cancer, with its
Subtle yet implacable advance. The tumour
Swelled as daylight died, feasting on the lamp
Of life, humiliating physics and our human self-importance.
Birdsong faded; in its place
My ragged lonely breath—louder
Than The Last Post on the eleventh of November—
Made meagre mourning. Who was I
To take the last breath of the world? And so
I held it, feeling, though in weaker form, the
Solar giant’s suffering, as it and I were slowly
Starved to death. I felt
My energy devoured by a midnight veil
Of malice, the creeping shadow of entropy
Fall upon my face, and I was cold, so cold
That Icarus could stroke my cheek and still
His wax would hold. The land was grey, and
Nothing glinted, glowed or glittered, but sucked
In light; every blade of grass
Possessed the greedy gravity of infinite mass.
No funeral was held that day,
And not a soul wore black;
Like fools, we all believed it would come back.

Aaron Saint John