Apocalypse - Richard Fleming

The Fall-Out Shelter queue winds on
and slowly on, then out of sight.
We clutch our tickets, move along:
in twos, a crocodile, polite;
a flock, a never-ending throng,
bent-shouldered, stricken, pale and drawn.
All but our clothes and one small bag,
is lost, abandoned any how.
The future is relinquished too:
we live in the rude present now.
We leave behind all that we knew:
possessions, symbols, honour, flag.
The soldiers, at the Shelter gate,
are brusque beneath the moving lens
of cameras that seem alive.
We enter, gather in our pens,
like bees within a buzzing hive,
to wait, survive and procreate.

Richard Fleming