Everyone in the world had died, save those who were outside in their back gardens, and those who had nothing but sky overhead. These survivors spent weeks burying or burning the dead, cart after cart relieved of their burdens, passing by acres of upturned earth, smoke filling an already grey sky. People took to farms to save the livestock, to live off the land. They fished from the ends of half-constructed bridges, sandwiches made from fresh-baked bread and yesterday's kill sitting warmly in their stomachs.
by David Clink. (www.poetrymachine.com)Appeared in: The Chiaroscuro. Volume 47 (April - June, 2011)