A New Beginning

[Stephen Whiteside]

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A New Beginning

We opened the door to a terrible world - empty and barren and cold.
The planet was doubly as harsh as all of the models on Earth had foretold,
But we'd brought all the tools of survival along in our ship as we'd hurtled through space,
And the burden fell light on our shoulders - no less than the future of our little race.

For we knew it meant nought to the cosmos at large whether humans survived or succumbed,
But it mattered to us, which is why all the deepest recesses of space we had plumbed.
At last we'd come here, but not for its climate, nor for its sweet atmosphere,
But simply because it was out of the way. We'd surely be pretty safe here.

Who'd want to visit this cold lump of rock, so far from the warmth of a sun?
Unless we'd been tracked, which was always a chance, through the length of our heavenly run.
If we were found on this pitiful ground, we'd make a last stand, we would fight.
So please do not offer us sympathy, no, nor shudder with thoughts of our plight.

For when you're pushed hard there is no time for thoughts of self-pity, there's no time for doubt.
When you are trapped, your thoughts simply turn to how you will find a way out.
It never occurred to our tight little band that perhaps we were brave pioneers.
The spur was survival, the battle ahead. Resolve pushed away all our fears.

It's easy to think, looking back on it now, that progress has always been sure.
Let me repeat that it felt otherwise when first we retracted that door.
We coped with invaders, though they didn't come until we were fully prepared.
We'd laid our plans well. The trap was now ours, and all of their troop was ensnared.

They didn't taste good, whether roasted or boiled, whether toasted or barbied or battered.
We'd learnt not to waste any foodstuffs at all. We ate them, and that's all that mattered.
We tried them with pumpkin. We tried them with peas. We chopped them up fine in a stew.
It always feels good to be eating a beast that had in its mind to eat you,

But beyond simply that, to speak very plain, they were sickly, and greenish, and foul,
And a peg on the nose was a handy addendum to hold their flesh deep in your bowel.
For all that I know, they felt quite the same way about making a meal out of us
(Though I long ago saw one consume an old man, and that didn't cause too much fuss),

But none of this matters. It's very small beer. The point is that we won the fight,
And that was the moment when into our souls, to replace the interminable night,
Came a glimmer of day-light, a moment of hope, an inkling that maybe, at last,
We'd prosper and flourish, we'd lay new foundations, and shrug off our terrible past.

To you who have reaped the sweet harvest we planted, it may seem a very smooth road
From the day we arrived to the life you have now, to your charming and settled abode.
I can only repeat, if we've hidden the warts, we have done our job neatly, and well,
And I pray with my heart that you never have reason to live through a similar hell.

Play with your children, your grandchildren, too, as the dome stretches strongly above
To give you your oxygen. Nurture them. Treasure them. Fill them with all of your love.
Forget, if you must, all the battles of old. Perhaps that's the way it should be,
But I won't forget. I will never forget how precious it is to be free.

© Stephen Whiteside 10.02.3013