Sarah Davies

Fond

The Earth
is not even fond of us
anymore

or the Goddess
or the bees or
the glowing children.

Only dogs
entertain a tolerance
for us –

we earned it
over time, blackmail
of bones and treats,

but some dogs
want to bite, recalling, howl,
they were once wolves.

And the bees
vibrate with rage over
the flower business

And the Goddess says,
“flood after flood, they might guess
we’re sending a message”

And Earth,
usually so patient, sighs
a hurricane

And the soft spot is
a sinkhole vast as Luton-
There’s no time for us.