WHAT IF

in times to come
they think these were our souls?

In life distended and dangling
outside our bodies
stuffed with instant gratification,

then discarded to blow away,
get caught on trees and pylons
like distressed kites,
or snagged in sparse hedgerows,
torn organs,
behind Hot Snax vans,

now they live on in landfills
beneath shrieking gulls,
empty things,
and what will be made
of the warning
to keep away from babies and children?

Liz Atkin