Time to plant tears, says the almanac
—Elizabeth Bishop, ‘Sestina’
It’s not the iconic bear I care about,
though she looks sad. It’s the ice
she’s standing on that makes me want to shout
look! those bobbing, jaggèd lumps are the price
that’s been agreed behind our backs,
dumping on our children’s children the sacrifice
of their whole future. It’s the end of almanacs,
of lying in the dappled shade of apple
trees, making love by musty haystacks
or the luxury we’ve enjoyed: to grapple
with age-old questions of eternity,
of which is best—temple, mosque or chapel.
Once water levels have risen and aridity
is here, we’ll weep hot tears for our cupidity.