Rachael Clyne

                              At Passover, we dipped a finger into our wine.                               We splashed a drop, for each plague named.                                                We did not rejoice.

                                                      I  BLOOD

                                           On hands, in every breath,                                                in gullet and gizzard,                                                   in belly of whale,                                             from every littered shore,                                             we the seas incarnadine.

                                                      II  FROGS

                                      After ice-melt, I pulled three frogs,                                     bloated and stinking, from the pond.                                          Can we afford to lose them?                                                  Slugs will flourish                                               in this unlikely spring.

                                                       III  FLIES

                                                Feast on our flesh,                                          they wriggle their fatted way,                                      before winging to offshore havens,                                          leaving us a humanless world.

                                                IV  WILD BEASTS

                                          In Chernobyl, wolf-law rules                                             empty dachas, factories.                                                 Bears refill forests.                                          Here, Adonis Blue butterflies                                          will thrive on Salisbury Plain.                                   Rats and dogs will shelter in car shells.

                                              V  CATTLE PLAGUE

                                     Play-barns with swings and muzak,                                            and no place for chickens.                                   Carousel feed-troughs rotate past cattle.                                Pigs gaze through gratings at a crack of sky.

                                                     VI  BOILS

                                        This winter virus has no end.                                The people cough their way into summer.                            Vaccinations, rumoured to be toxic, do not help.                                 An unreliable source blames chemtrails.

                                                      VII  HAIL

                                   First, snow, so deep. That night, rain.                                     By morning the window – solid ice.                                     On the ground, black ice, invisible.                                           We could not step outside.                                      Next day, hail thuds onto the roof.                                 Hail, snow, a sound like falling corpses–                                         these are surely plague times.

                                                 VIII  LOCUSTS

                                   Gobbling hoards turn Friday black,                                 as they swarm through shopping malls,                                       stampede for their white gods,                                trample one another for plasma screens.

                                                IX  DARKNESS

                                 A firmament of LED glare and twinkle                                of red and white lights thread highways                                       through the undarkened night.                                The only visible stars are on the ground.

                                         X  DEATH OF FIRSTBORN

                                    Floods destroy the power station.                                    Fish without scales, tumour-ridden,                                   cover the ocean to its farthest coast.                                         There will be no offspring.

                                         XI  PARTING OF WAVES

                                       Red the ocean, gone the ice,                                          gone coastline. No more                                           trips to the seaside. No                                             sandcastles. No fish                                              to fry. No bargains                                              to buy. No creatures                                      to catch. No trees. No insects                                                to bite. No birds                                            to shoot. No property                                               to buy. No planes                                                 to fly. No God                                                to part the waves.                                              Just burning bushes.