Lightning strikes,
the sky ablaze
in daylight through dark-night
as if God himself
was taking one last snapshot
before drowning us in rain,
His can of Raid
His lawn once proudly green,
Japanese gardens, kind fountains
like the once sweetly chatting brooks
that kept us company,
now patches of ugly brown
dead earth, sky scraping weeds
trying in vain to be the tallest mockery
His plan is clean cut
and labelled well for the days ahead,
purifying through fire and smoke
and landscaping the tiny anthills
into oblivion, before washing us all away
and polishing his floors once again
for those fit to walk on it
after removing their shoes
© Antonio Beardall
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