By Thomas Collins
If all the earth should turn to dust,
the oceans hardened clay,
the sky as dark as clouded dusk
come middle of the day,
if all creatures should cease to walk,
the birds all blown away,
no longer people left to talk
nor words to lead them stray,
there’d be none left to meditate,
remembering the flames,
to mourn what caused so great a fire
or curse how flood-waters came
to scourge both branch and snow-white bone,
to level hills to plane,
to crumble all from step to spire
and wash whatever remained.
If all the earth should turn to dust,
and oceans hardened clay,
there’d be none left to chronicle
our final end of days.