In the morning, when the aliens landed,
they set themselves the task of understanding
who we had been.

The atmosphere had scrubbed itself,
not caring to retain the stench;
the waters had been boiled,
and fallen back
as purer rain;
trashmountains smouldered, 
deep in the great Crevasse
of Earthqake.

The chief of the Aliens (Alien I)
peered about for evidence:

He saw
a horse whose eyes could look ahead
but not from side to side,
and a parrot who had wings
but could not fly, for they
had healed another way,
and a tiny neuter dog 
who howled like something fluffy damned
for no one came to feed him;
(are his teeth intact?)
a mountain of dead elephants gave evidence
of something major wrong,
yet showed no tusk,
and the pale mustang
was limping, for his feet
were far too thin to be
protection from the stones.

The hens lined up, pressed
wing to useless wing, to make
familiar crush, and hid their eyes
from daylight,
and the dimwit sheep began to stray across the lips
of nearby cliffs.
The cormorant was feeding
to a basket all its catch
and watching infants
fade and weaken
slowly into death.

And on and on, the cripples
were all that Chief could see
of Evolution's witty sword.

What was this place?

What it was, we know not,
but I am glad we were not
one day
early.
What mad sculptors
Oh, what misshapen art.

He drew his sword.

©  Copyright, 2000; Malcolm Beckett