Member Poem

And so begins the stifling of the caves:
mould takes in the Hall of the Bulls; light strips
the Apse’s tint; lichen lines the Passageway; waves
of air drift past stars, condensation drips.
Fungus spots the paint on ancient hides, blooms
on Red Cow; Little Pony slips from view;
the tons of quicklime overheat the rooms.
They blame the crowds, hundreds passing through
each day, exhaling carbon-dioxide;
not bothering to sterilise their shoes,
the careless workmen leave foul spores inside.
Such a shame. Seventeen thousand years to lose.
Would Paleolithic man have made such blunders?
How far we’ve come since then. One wonders.

First published in Open Earth II anthology, PM Books (Pudding Magazine), April 2017.