George Monbiot’s agricultural policy
Nobody expected them to thrive so well.
Life expectancy has plummeted.
The languorous, cruel kiss of cancer
Is a luxury that’s lost to most these days.
As for curing it: why bother?
The roads are not safe;
They’ll see you coming a mile off
And run you down on the hot concrete.
You’ll be bones before sundown.
Cities too have become their home;
Their calls echo down desolate streets.
Tendrils caress cracked tower blocks
And islands of rubble sprout saplings.
It all looks cleaner somehow,
But everything’s heavy with their stink.
The elephants barely lasted a month.
Why would they? They’d no idea what to do.
They’ve not been here for millennia.
You come across a skull now and then
But it’s best not to get too close.
Even the chemicals couldn’t kill them.
Even the missiles they strafed the hills with
Did nothing but make them bigger
And angrier. If they can’t find people
They devour each other. That concentrates them.
But the air is clearer to breathe, I think.
Forests sprouted almost overnight, as if
Unimpressed by our centuries’ efforts.
The sun seems brighter now too, and the stars –
Ah, the stars! We try to avoid the moon.
I saw George in what was Aberaeron last week,
Raiding a bookshop, of all places, for supplies.
We smeared each other with bear faeces
And hunkered behind the counter while they passed.
“It’s hard to measure happiness,” he said.
In the Men’s Room