Nothing was left but mushrooms.

They fed on the dead.

And subsequently fed

on their own dead.

After a decade or two

new strains emerged:

tall and iridescent,

immensely graceful,

they swayed like noble dancers

in the toxic winds.

God looked down from on high

(where nothing had changed)

and saw it was good. And pretty.

But regretted slightly

that mushrooms can neither see

nor celebrate

their strangeness. Their Beauty.

Julian Broughton is a composer and poet.