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The Sun

A poem by Peter Phillips

Image

Photo: Arun Kulshreshtha via Wikimedia Commons

Sun hangs over London, as if she’s stalking me. The lawn
has burnt patches, like a blister which won’t heal. The weather
forecasters are excited. The weather forecasters are lying.

In the arctic, a mammoth iceberg hunches its shoulders, splits,
topples over. The cast-off, a small country, floats towards
the warmth, its watery cargo melting. In Zermatt

there’s been no January snow. Spoilt bankers and their
hedge fund cousins feel let down. They don’t know what
it’s like to be let down. They will soon learn. Two months pass

and so does the panic. Life returns: a breakfast of skinny latte
for her and a double expresso and chocolate croissant for me.
Then, for the second year, infernos on the moors flare up.

Twenty-foot flames lap the air. Fires sprint all over. Everyone
is playing with water. Want to join in? No, I don’t think so,
they wouldn’t want me anyway. The ground is steaming.

Carbon from peat poisons the sky. Again, fires take two
months to drown. Have you ever seen a dust-bowl? Do you
want to? There may be one blowing our way. East Anglia

is a good candidate. No, you can’t buy tickets. Newspapers
stop scare stories, but John Lewis have just made a vast order
for hand-held fans. I notice the sun is still wearing her

‘I told you so’ smile as she glugs a glass of dry white.