in this world (10)

The Cotentin geology reflects that of Cornwall, except for the sand planted with slanting pillboxes — leftovers no one’s bothered with: even the sea only has the occasional nibble. This French land is like a dream under a heavy sky; tonguing the surf, it shoves nuclear waste down the seabed.

I’d like to give you a beach from the past, so that what’s predicted remains in its realm of speculation. You see,

bush fires will singe your hair as the surf pelts you with fragments of reef bones and coral, now hard to distinguish from weathered plastic. The iniquity of it all, that imbalance left in our wake, will make you weep and there won’t be a kind hand to wipe your snot as all deities will have shifted to the Church of Corporate Power.