Apocalypse Poem by Jacqui Thewless

in council houses
and manicured estates -
imagine whistles!

conducted by wind
the chill shriek of the first notes
like any banshee!

Hark! I hear a flute
they say, Krishna's returning -
everything's at stake!

our armies
are terrified -
bag-pipe airs and brass-band
anthems ricochet


instead of gunfire.
sax riffs rip up
banks and sergeants
and road-workers

drill to the rhythm
of clarinets.
do people
change their tune
or do ears hear differently? –
a cappella

vocals shift pitch.

football fans roar like piccolos,
grannies natter like bassoons;
lovesongs sound like
alpenhorns -
and when the saints come marching in
they blow
kazoos.