Melt
If a white bear’s weight
tilts the floe
where once he stood
in balance with the ice―
If he opens himself
to a barely discernible
scent of seal
but it drifts off like sleet―
If a bear pads the asphalt
of a seaside town
sallowed by streetlight
snow leached from his fur―
If the dump draws him to paw
through the stink
of rubbish
set alight to dissuade him―
If the evening is balmy
and deep in the icesheet’s
vitric blue
hairline cracks are forming―
If warm air settles like ash
on the swell
and sea smoke rises
and all the seals have melted away―
Cindy Botha lives in New Zealand where she finally began writing after six decades of doing other things. She is published in NZ, the UK and the USA.