Song Of The Last Men Poem by David Tremain

Bring coal for the fire, my son, for when
The bright electric heat has died away;
And stock the woodyard high with timber chopped
And stored for the long, cold winter that will come
When the pallid sun behind the hills has dropped

Bring meat for to taste, my boy, the flesh
Of the very last thing to live that was not us;
And wear the sorry fur of one who saw
Through childlike eyes his fate with the seasons tied
But knew not what the burden was he bore

Bring ice for the pain, my child, to ease
The slow, momentous turning of the wheel;
And place your trembling hand upon my palm
And say, though in your eyes you know you lie
The path we follow brings us both no harm

Lay stone on the earth, my friend, but not
Because the swallow flies above no more;
And do not think that I have left you long
For before you knew the mountains and the sky
I taught the river that it might sing our song.