'Repent at Leisure'' by John King

As catastrophes go it wasn’t that bad.

Yet.

Was I the only one on the peninsula who knew there

was a countdown? 9 years to zero, decade, tops.

In stinging air, on cracked earth people laughed at 

me - ‘Kill Joy’.

Almost all visitors arrived by road, petrol, diesel, 

the hybrids and electrics an afterthought.

Nowhere to go back to. Derelict buildings were

brought up. Camper vans became static.

This paradox paradise. Those attracted by the

remaining beauty killed it.

The authority’s response? Re-sign the outbound

motorway, make 6 lanes in.

Some liked it hot, a mono-season, black Christmas on

the beach, the perma-attire of flip-flops.

Manufacturers of woollen goods failed, suppliers

migrated to the new industries of desalination and 

aircon, wind turbines as fans.

When the sea decided we were an island it was beyond

time for action.

We cycled to the gates of the complex expecting

to be resisted by security.

A lonely guard, his asthmatic face illuminated by a 

screen put down his tablet.

‘Join us,’ I said.

He offered me two electronic keys, one for each Dome:

‘Tropical or Mediterranean?’

The biodomes of the leisure zone had completed their

inversion. ‘Exotic’ plants that flourished inside

them were outside, inside were oaks and firs.

I felt so at home in the first Dome I wanted to

rename it. Beneath the oak in my old wool coat

calling a meeting:

‘Agenda, first item, updating our Dome designation.’

The old guard rose: ‘first item, electing our 

leader.’