A Sonnet for the Cold & the Dead
The politician’s ploy is to pretend
that he’s been troubled by the photos, too:
the pickled limbs of children on the sand;
their corpses splayed like seaweed; salted through.
He does not cry, but tells us that he could,
those tiny, starfish’d bodies in his eyes;
his tongue a lifeboat sent into the flood,
pretending rescue, really packed with lies
which might be weighted anchors, or just air,
nothing that the drowning ones can grasp;
the point is that he doesn’t really care
about those refugees who drink their last
from our grey sea: who sink instead of swim.
Babies’ bodies frozen cold – but not as cold as him.