Frozen under this glass dome
I am their most-visited exhibit:
they file past dressed in solar shields,
press lips thirsty for my memories
before permanent summers,
parched oceans. No more drilling,
spilling on scorched shores
where once I stretched white wilderness
to the horizon. Too little done
and all too late. State-of-the-art
capsules flee with the wealthy
into space, a caldera of bones
burning in their wake. Soon
my last flake will melt, evaporate.
Anne Eyries
Anne Eyries has poetry published in various journals, including Amsterdam Quarterly, Consilience, Dream Catcher, Dust, Humana Obscura, London Grip, and Woodside Review. She grew up in Scotland and lives in France.