Thwaites Glacier

It was all over the news, last Tuesday,
a glacier the size of Britain,
                               melting
where it’s licked by the sea’s warm tongue
until it smooshes like a slush puppy
and is swallowed.

I stopped walking
when I read about it on my phone.
Five days later, I’m still standing
where I stopped

like Icefin, the robot,
when it found where ice meets land.

I keep checking my phone.
It tells me about Brexit and the Baftas,
China and the coronavirus

but I’m waiting for instructions.
So, I’m standing beneath
a sky the colour of the Mediterranean
with clouds that could be snow

and the sun is so bright the pavement glistens
like ice and I don’t know if I’m standing
on the road or a frozen lake

in the middle of London
that is melting around my feet.