The End

There is a strange coldness in the air today. The wind shivers as it teases passer-bys and toys with the leaves on the trees. Perhaps it's just the beginnings of winter but there’s a haste in the rain which feels more like a warning. A world running out of time. It feels itself crumble and tells all of nature to hurry up and get it done. And so the rain falls with a cruel eagerness, the clouds clump in terrified tribes and the mild sun clings to the world with the knowledge that it may never feel the glory of a sunrise again. The people have begun to notice. Or maybe they have always clung together and mumbled like this; maybe they have always known that the world would one day die of old age. A child digs her hand into the earth and checks it for wrinkles...the soil is cold, dry and uninviting. Have the people always worn black and talked to each-other in hushed voices? Has the undertaker always looked so expectant and impatient? Yes, they must know.

But no-one will speak of it, that I am sure of. We are a proud race that will not beg or plead for the world to show us mercy. It’s in the eyes, you know. That’s where you see the knowledge. All of the world will sit in silence and watch the sky tear apart at the seams. A man looks worried as he searches his pockets; I think that he knows that he’s lost the earth through the hole in his jacket. He reaches his hands out again with a grim dissatisfaction. The  air is thinner. We allow ourselves one sneaky look at the horizon. Is it still there? Yes, for now.