So. Finally you christen us!

How kind of you, how gracious

to presume that for all the five

billion years we drifted here,

among the Kuiper Clutter

we did not know ourselves!

How generous of you, down there,

racing giddily round your fattened Sun

to name us after yet more deathly

characters from that darkest, dreary myth,

assuming all we do out here is drift

morosely in the gloom! Ha!

We call comets names as they

glide haughtily past, trailing their fancy

trains of plasma and sequined gas!

Blow raspberries at Father Pluto as

we prowl around him; knock upon

chrone Charon’s door then soar

away into the night, laughing!


“Nix” and “Hydra”? Pah.

You’d have us old before our time!

Surely you could have dreamed

up something better, brighter.

Especially with all that precious,

horded sunlight to inspire you…


© Stuart Atkinson


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