by Luke Western
Winner – Stories for Survival Writing Competition 2024
“A really stunning piece of writing, with a stark message that is all the more powerful for Luke’s deceptively simple and playful language. Remarkable. That final haunting ‘our hands on the hilt’ will stay with me.” Jeremy Lazell, Head Judge
It’s only a hop, from tock to tick, a flick;
from the last to the past is equally quick.
Hope on the edge, pales to hoped,
pale dreams on the brink, slink, failed, to dreamt.
In the blink of an eye, smiles shrink to smiled,
and the shine in that eye, shies to shone.
Once one, drops to none, belief is gone.
When belief has passed, there is no believe,
just believed, a door to the past,
and all we adore, will have been adored,
the song in the air mute now, warnings ignored.
If there is no song, sing is sang.
If the sky is empty, and so is the sea,
we’ve left it too late –
food for thought, not for your plate,
savour your meal, as eat staves to ate.
We need to slow down, swallow our pride,
before swim sinks to swam, lost in the tide,
or run crawls to ran, with nowhere to hide.
Before fall folds to fell, with full forests felled,
trunks cut to wood, habitats expelled.
Before stride slides to strode, dive falls to dove,
drive stalls to drove, at the end road.
Take a deep breath, before breathe becomes breathed.
Gasp as we mourn the trees and their leaves,
and the thistle and thorn, and the weeds that we weed,
and the soil we spray to keep them away.
When nothing is new, grow shifts to grew,
no wings in the air, no eggs in the sand,
no legs in the hills, life lost on land.
If life is lost, then live will be lived,
and what we love, we’ll lose to loved.
We willingly watch our wild world wilt,
weighing the weight of survivors’ guilt,
fueling the flames of the fire we built,
solely to blame, our hands on the hilt.
Image: Unsplash, Matt Howard
To watch the film, with Survivors’ Guilt narrated by Stephen Fry please click here.
