Coming down the hill, saw in hand,
I am dragging the limbs of the fallen
Across the bent wire, over the ditch
And home.
Rime gathers on the stones. I will kneel.
A fire will rise where I strike the gauze.
The world is mine, yet at its edges
Spreads a colour like Judgement.
There is a drop of dark in the wash.
It will not move where my brush commands.

Away on the networks, the beast eats its tail
Again and again.
Insects swarm across the wounds.
The wise build shelters. Here it comes:
The time of frost.

This previously unpublished poem was contributed to the DAF blog by Paul Kingsnorth, author, founder of the Dark Mountain Project and former deputy editor of The Ecologist.
paulkingsnorth.net

Photo by Isaiah Atkinson on Unsplash