south of a skyward stretch of mounts
lies England, green and white land
her towers felled by ducklings

her geese have joined the wild
the frayed cacophany
of a godless post-empire

now we stare at coffee pots
and think ourselves profound
while Ur's voice grinds a whisper

despairing through weary pixels
each stitch of the telegraph cable
buried in fallen time

and down through the maps
terrifying mutations ravage earth
hurling us far from apotheosis

till the last sod of root
dangles from a broken tree
our rage grows with it, each day
exposed