I saved a suicidal spider,
Which was
poised to plunge
Into the torrent
of steaming water,
Swirling in
my kitchen sink.
I intervened
with a piece of cardboard
To prevent
its dive
Over the sink’s brink.
Then I was smug,
And I savoured my smugness.
I saw myself as the great godlike,
Arachnid saviour.
Until realising that, most likely,
There was no saviour for me,
Or the billions of my species,
About to be swept away in floods
Or scorched to death in droughts and fires,
That we ourselves created.
We have always prayed
To some god or gods,
To anything or nothing.
But if he, she, it or they are there,
They might not care,
Or might think it only fair,
That the consequences
Which we’ve engineered
Finish us off for good.
Furthermore, we only have two legs each,
Unlike our eight-legged successors,
Who will scuttle over our ruins,
Not remembering us at all.
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