A Cross Section of Ancient Rock as Atomic Oracle
The prophecy is mute, as all the best
Predictions ought to be. It’s not until
Fulfilment comes and we have acquiesced
To its finality that we can drill
Its import. Pressed gray marble ruined by
Black manganese was unaware of powers
Of tongueless seers when crushed by the sly
Control of gruesome eons. Now it glowers
With gloom. It seems to be a cityscape,
Hiroshima perhaps, after the blast,
With charred trees standing, made of blackest crepe
Their erstwhile trunks. The marble seems aghast.
Behind the elms, beyond the nearer bank,
A fishless river now is lethal, blank.