The bottom of the reservoir
is visible: cracked mud,
like a turtle's skin in close-up.
Driverless, the harvester
traces satellite-directed lines
up and down the wheatfield.
There's a gyre of plastic
turning in the ocean,
a belt of metal junk in space,
in front of empty shopfronts
opposite the rich man's bank on Strand.
There's a hollowness in birdsong, now,
a slowing in the pulse of stars.
Everything is winding down
but the chatter of salaried egos,
selling Right Thought as the factories close,
as if self-belief could mug thermodynamics.
Refresh the page. Above the picture
of the smiling Chair,
the share price tumbles.
* * *
Today's NaPoWriMo prompt was to write a piece starting from an image. Leafing through the paper I found a picture of a dried-up reservoir down south and started writing from that. Because the pictures in it share some of the same feeling as the new Patrick Keiller film, 'Robinson in Ruins' (and in fact the image in the second verse is taken from the film), I decided to reference that in the title.