I can feel the weight of the clouds pushing down on me.

The planet is dying and with it 
the foxes fucking in the care park of our block of flats.
It’s taking the cheeseburgers with it and children, 
    necklaces and best friends.
The planet is dying 
    and I can feel the weight of the clouds pushing down on me.

I’ll never see the crest of a wave again.

The planet is dying and it’s taking with it people saying 
     oh, sorry! as they move their bag 
off the seat next to them on trains.
The planet is dying and with it 
lipstick and black-and-white films.

The planet is dying and it’s taking nightclubs with it 
    and bananas and folk music.
The planet is dying and it’s too much to think about, I know.
Because washing out jars, getting rid of your car won’t fix it.
    Not if it’s just you alone.

The planet is dying and the teenagers know it.
They know there’s no point in their learning 
    if something’s not done soon.
The planet is dying and it’ll take chips with it, 
    and mayonnaise.
And trams and promises and contracts 
and hospitals and bluebells 
and the whole huge sky can’t exist 
if there’s no one there to look up at it.

The planet is dying and it’ll take pro-life activists 
and white supremacists with it.
So it’s not all bad.
All babies and cream cakes, all milkshakes and custard.
All vegan alternatives, all fancy nut butters.
All radishes and carrots, 
the soil under our nails when we’re planting out plants.

The planet is dying and
I’ll never lick the sweat from my upper lip trying 
to jog around the park that’s brimming with ancient trees.
And it’ll take poverty and famine and injustice eventually.
Because our habitat collapsing is necessarily a leveller.
Although, yes, if you’re rich, you’ll be better off for longer.
But the planet is dying, so pour some rough homebrew 
and strap yourself in.

the planet is dying and it’ll take with it 
all Cornish pasties, all family gatherings, 
all holidays and nectarines, 
all handshakes and houses,
all floorboards and cheap rag rugs.

The planet is dying 
and I’ll never smell the flaking skin in your beard, 
I’ll never sit in the living room’s low armchair and sigh.
You’ll never bring me tea in bed again 
or complain about your commute.
I will never be able to talk things through 
with my mate over cold white wine.
    The planet is dying.

Jemima Foxtrot is a writer and performer who performs and teaches internationally. She is the founder of Kindreds Creatives and has written numerous works for stage. Her debut poetry collection All Damn Day (2016) and A New Game (2022) from which this poem comes are published by Burning Eye Books.