Because this is what we had left
When the fields were gone.
Because our feet had become scorched
On cracked tarmac.
Because the unthinkable
Had become the inevitable.
Because of those things, we came here.
We sat on the edge and watched,
Our feet dangling. It felt
Like a metaphor.
You said poetry was made for this.
That this was the moment it mattered most.
So we sat there and wrote it,
The final one, together.
Using words we’d scraped up from
What was left.
When it was finished I read it aloud
And then you tore it up and
We fed it, word by word
Into the wind.
And then because it was too late
To say anything else
We just held hands
And stepped over.