Mud as a river. Mud as a theoretical concept, the transistory state of matter rarely glimpsed. Mud described in complex equations. Mud as the consequence of our actions we refuse to acknowledge or take responsibility for, despite it chewing at our shins. Mud in our boots. Mud in our hair. Mud clogging up our pores so we sweat mud. Mud turning our hills to waterslides. Mud washing away our temporary shelters. Mud as a non-Newtonian fluid we can bounce across if we hit it hard enough. Mud as the inevitable future. Mud as penance. Mud as the herald, the herald of the flood.
Maybe if I-
Ice receedes like a hairline,
little at first then all at once.
The problem lies beneath the skin,
down under a mile of compressed blue,
where strange bodies skitter and wriggle. where pressure will implode careless bones.
Down there, in the dark, it is warmer.
Only by a degree. But pressure and salinity
are poorly understood and difficult to model.
And there, unnoticed by passing survey ships
or penguins, tunnels are being carved
into the glacier like delicate incisions,
bringing warmer water to what lies above.
The gulf stream splutters,
croons to us like a drunk -
We are held captive
by its sporading warbling
feel its hot breath
Just two morals before Rishi Sunak
opened hundreds of lifespans
for ommission and gasket extravagance
in the north sea, an IT fishmonger
founded by his fault-in-law
signed a 1.5 billion binge death
with enigma guilt BP.
I stand vulnerable under artifical rain,
enjoying the luxury of not reading headlines.
I count everything I know for certain,
Watch it swirl and vanish down the drain.
On the surface of this new lake
hundreds of worms rejoice,
then as water keeps cascading,
twitch as one, stop moving.
Section 2.5 was adapted from the first sentence of this article in The National.