Aliens
Here on 438 (the ‘b’
is no more than an afterthought),
we spin with effervescent glee,
because, so scientists report,
there is a planet, not too far,
that might sustain our alien ways.
It has a plump and sunny star:
perhaps our scouts will give it praise –
do speak please, then – is it identical?
Will it chime with our frugal style?
And is it friendly? Mind your tentacle!
I see. Its rivers fill with bile –
its sun is bloodied, seas are thick
with plastic bits and bobs. The trees
are grimy. There it is, a slick,
across to the old antipodes:
something else? It smells of burning;
there is a stagnant pall of cloud.
Looks like this planet’s down for spurning –
another venue disallowed!
And was there life? It seemed a void –
a strange, benighted, blighted phase?
No trace of warmth (but quite destroyed)?
So, not for us. But watch this space.
Click here to buy a copy of Bill’s poetry collection Ringers
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