“The world in which you grew up, in the nineteen forties,

Was more secure than mine, born two thousand, your ears

Were full of a won war, ours of a lost climate and threatened

Extinction:  We got global warming in Primary School with less

Hope of its amelioration than of curing the playground mess

Of crisp packets. And we know that you are liars: we’ve had

Twenty years of older people saying theres a climate crisis

And doing nothing about it. My auntie asked a taxi driver,

As he drove her home, “Aren’t you worried about global warming

for your grandchildren?”  “No. That’ll be their problem,

I’ve got mine.” Trump denies it, but at least he wants a new

Cool home in Greenland, so maybe he’ll distribute a few

Square yards of it to his grandchildren, while we have floods

In winter and fires in summer. Do you wonder why I need drugs

to stay sane! If I am sane. 64 % of us admit to mental disturbance

including consideration of suicide. But if you are inclined to envision

us as nutters, remember that we have less faith in politicians

than any previous generation. Theorists say we’re poisoned

by the internet, but my experience is I’ve been made wise and

informed by the connections that showed me the antarctic

giant sea spiders, once land creatures, who in ecological disaster

took to the water, adaptive, beautiful beyond their struggles’ frenzy

offering an example that may be relevant to me and Gen Z.”

“It’s good to be with you,” I say, “without all the blood

Odysseus has to provide for the dead to drink, food

That will restore their humanity enough to speak and hear,

Whereas you decide to make yourself available as now, dear

Daughter, without that messy requirement. Would I know

Even if it was legalised, how to go about sacrificing a cow?”

“Don’t be so sure,” you tell me, “Life here is perfect of course

But perfection excludes the lovely imperfection of horse

And human, which I am forgiven for missing. Through you,

I can enjoy the warmth of the sun on skin, the blessing

Of blue sky and sea, the excitement of waves pressing

Over sand and foot, that makes you say to strangers, What

A day! My recompense for meeting with you is not

Just the pleasure of your conversation, but also your physique.

Thanks for letting me share it.” But I had to speak,

“We’ve come to understand that too much sunshine is as

Bad as too little, the rivers low, the fields and forests parched,

The crops burnt, it’s the catastrophe we’re causing, each

Perfect day is also a killer, the kids playing here on the beach

May not have a future, you must know this.” “The Mother is wise,”

You say. “Death, like blood, is one way in which she can dramatise

The need to understand and change. Always in evolution she

Works with every particle to make the best that there can be,

To give the past a future, the dead a life. What you call history

Is her store of wisdom, always available if you choose to listen.

The sun’s danger is also a beauty you do not want to miss. And remember, if I weren’t dead, we could not meet like this.

Rich and powerful people in medieval times admired its winter

Fur and wore it to advertise their status, mainly as trimmings

on ceremonial garments such as caps and shoulder coats.

Popes and priests popularised another myth of winter stoats:

That they would rather die than let their white pelage be stained-

A symbol of purity not very suitable for Cecilia Gallerani painted

By Leonardo da Vinci with an ermine in her arms. Ludovico Sforza

Duke of Milan was her lover when she was sixteen, but tossed her

Away to marry the love of his life, Beatrice, while she quickly

Married Count Lodovico Carminati. All this is a bit tricky

 To symbolise as purity, and as any farmer would have known

That the stoat is a formidable shagger because of its penis-bone,

Cuddling the animal may not have been unambiguously

Innocent. In any case I know it’s a killer with an unfussy

technique.. When I was nine years old, watching rabbits feeding

In the park meadow, I saw the autumn brown and white creature

Dance before its victim, climb upon its back, and bite its neck

Before disemboweling it and chewing fast. I will not forget

The rabbit’s scream. Celtic stories recognise its danger:

It is a banshee whose howl means death, whose spit is famous

As poison. If you cross its path, doff your cap and say,

Good morrow, noble lady. She moves easily between day

And night, future and present. I have seen her when walking

Fields and forests, appreciating her skill in stalking

Beasts bigger than herself, more often as I have got older.

-Is it that I am more attentive or has she become bolder?

One day soon I will feel her delicate feet on my back,

Her teeth on my neck, then feel no more of the attack.