To The Man Burning Windows

To start the blaze

you curl up a paper

watch fire eat their words

about global warming

now climate crisis

as if language makes a difference

as if that’s what it is.

People kick up a fuss

as the fire kicks up smoke

but you can’t see the ice melting.

In cities gates are hemmed

with barbed wire vicious

scrawls of birds’ nests

where binbags roost

rip themselves into rooks

flapping in the wind

pronged metal

clenched into talons.

Fox fur lines coats

roads shop windows

scavengers in cities

which used to burn t

hick with whale light.

Building sites

drop nuts and bolts

sowing rust

into the ground

wires grow thorns

ripping roses

unaccustomed to blooming

by night lights

bleed onto rivers

until the water’s artificial blue

swarming with shopping

trolleys ads pop up like weeds

we forget to notice

there’s a catastrophic

braille of gum.

Above

Delphinus is drowning

in orange light

The Great Bear

is skeletal star and pelt

The North is recognisable

as a speck of white

a foreboding mirror of the globe.

You think it will be a star-studded

fight Orion and his blazing belt

gladiatorial against the lion

with a glint for an eye

but they’re both snuffed

out by bush fire.

It’s too late

you say anyway

might as well enjoy

seasons as they flare

into travesties.

What difference is in 1ºC

you say you won’t be here to see

you are content to settle

as the dust

retreating in another’s hourglass.

You are content

with the polystyrene

semblance of ice

rotting to an eternal hail

a stranger to winter

you are content

to germinate

tomorrows

in which we will be

stung by the rumour of honey

you are content

to throw away plastic cups

bottles of birdsong

messages bobbing

inaudible on high waters

you are content

to leave a tideline

rivalling the skyline

knowing that we cannot

plough the sea.

You leave us with dark

smoke retire home

scuttle back to the city

deserting plump woodpigeons

for the metropolis’ kind

hobbled and homeless

unaccustomed to trees

in urban uniforms

of city grey

oiled plumages

iridescent & every colour

of the rainbow

laid upon the ground

by a car.

You are happy to watch

the sun rise in the West

as oblongs of glass

band light around

running ragged the skyline

an erratic heart.

Extinction is on the flatlining

horizon but you cannot see it.

At sunset your city must look

beautiful

as though the world is on fire.

Daisy Campbell

Daisy Campbell is interested in the intersections of literature, visual art, and the environment. Daisy is currently pursuing a Master’s degree in Modern and Contemporary Writing at the University of East Anglia.