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Survivors' Guilt
Award-Winning Poem: Survivors' Guilt by Luke Western
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Written in August 2024, Survivors' Guilt is an award-winning poem by wildlife artist and poet Luke Western. Using the simple yet profound concept of altering a single letter to shift words from present to past tense—such as "love" to "loved" or "shine" to "shone"—the poem captures the fragility of life and how swiftly things can change.
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This special reading has been kindly performed by Stephen Fry.
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In November 2024, Survivors' Guilt was announced as the winner of the Stories for Survival conservation competition at the On the Edge event, hosted by Explorers Against Extinction at the Royal Geographical Society.
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Jeremy Lazelle, head judge, described it as:
"A really stunning piece of writing, with a stark message that is all the more powerful for Luke's deceptively simple and playful language. Remarkable. That final haunting 'our hands on the hilt' will stay with me."
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Prepare to experience this deeply moving and thought-provoking work, brought to life with a stunning performance by Stephen Fry.
Survivors' Guilt
By Luke Western
It’s only a hop, from tock to tick, a flick,
from the last to the past is equally quick.
Hope on the edge, pales to hoped,
pale dreams on the brink, slink, failed to dreamt.
In the blink of an eye, smiles shrink to smiled,
and the shine in that eye, shies to shone,
once one drops to none, belief is gone.
When belief has passed, there is no believe,
just believed, a door to the past,
and all we adore will have been adored,
the song in the air mute now, warnings ignored.
If there is no song, sing is sang.
if the sky is empty and so is the sea,
we’ve left it too late,
food for thought, not for your plate,
savour your meal as eat staves to ate.
We need to slow down, swallow our pride,
before swim sinks to swam, lost in the tide,
or run crawls to ran, with nowhere to hide.
Before fall folds to fell, with full forests felled,
trunks cut to wood, habitats expelled.
Before stride slides to strode, dive falls to dove,
drive stalls to drove, at the end road.
Take a deep breath, before breathe becomes breathed.
Gasp as we mourn the trees and their leaves,
and the thistle and thorn, and the weeds that we weed,
and the soil we spray to keep them away.
When nothing is new, grow shifts to grew,
no wings in the air, no eggs in the sand,
no legs in the hills, life lost on land.
If life is lost, then live will be lived
and what we love we’ll lose to loved.
We willingly watch our wild world wilt,
weighing the weight of survivors' guilt,
fuelling the flames of the fire we built,
solely to blame, our hands on the hilt.