/rattle of a sieve upstairs
metal in a kitchen a picture window
with views to wide and tended lawn
a familiar wood pigeon, crows of course—elsewhere
brash green squawks
of climate opportunists, escapees
a festival groans in the park (fenced in, monetised)
helicopter blades chopping the wind so
all that industrious gossamer
spun
between valerian and honeysuckle
shudders
and yes, its subtle geometries hold—
/air traffic has resumed
white streaks across sky
punctuated by intermittent barks, a noisy fly, that does
eventually depart amongst
innocent memories of
aerosol and squashy white bread
/birdsong is ambient, occasionally identified on an app
soon to be rendered obsolete
/all this barefoot on the ground
earthed
amongst the luxury of purely
decorative plants, although no such thing exists
only arrogant space that recognises
only its own colonies
only mundane taxonomies
(not without utility or
purpose
but limited, yes)
/ an empty birdcage hangs
from the trunk of an old rose
no bird has flown in or out
or attempted to nest
even though the little trapdoor hangs open
like a tongue
which propels my chain
of thought to yesterday, when I saw a GPS dog collar
in the aisle
only £12.99—so no dog might ever get lost
or flee
or dodge the stick
with an endangered wife, the kids
/feet, toes, soles on clammy grass and clover
earthed by negative ions—
a prescription from Sula, black woman healer
who says it will ease the inflammation in my spine
and it does soothe, cools
as if I might
be under water, under sea, briefly rolling
/it’s hard to trust
the ground these days
though my Dad’s bequeathed
marigolds are thriving
now they’re free
from my absentmindedness
/trying to remember and simultaneously forget
how seagulls
congregate at the rubbish tip
their greasy, monochrome bodies huddled against red cliffs
the stink of rotten this and that
the sea edging closer
while we watch men
who name themselves Theo
launch and burn only to disappoint
by coming back
as the sea must bear its lunar tide
raise hurricanes in defence
Born in London to English and Jamaican parents, Karen McCarthy Woolf is a poet, broadcaster, and editor whose collection, An Aviary of Small Birds,was described as a ’pitch perfect début’ (Guardian); her latest, Seasonal Disturbances, explores climate crisis, migration, the city, and the sacred, and was a winner in the inaugural Laurel Prize. As a Fulbright postdoctoral scholar at UCLA, she was poet in residence at the Promise Institute for Human Rights, where her interdisciplinary research explores the relationship between poetry, law, and ecologies of space. This year she has been awarded an artist residency at the Institute Sacatar in Brazil for a collaborative project on sugar with architect Ed Holloway and musician and cultural theorist Zacharia Mokrani.
When I was born, at the beginning of the 22nd century, the world was choking under the weight of devastating disasters. It took the climate wars to free us—from some problems, at least.
Art by Sab Meynert
