Ignore their hogwash and rejoice!
We’re Walking on the Earth tonight!
See history made, as ‘Arctic blasts’
whisper bicentennial flight,
of Nordic flakes, to drifts that last,
like myriad sparkling Christmas lights;
which lift the soul,
to twist and soar
through Solar Cycle Twenty Four;
which fly the flag for windblown white –
and heated soup and howling nights!

The Sun will chill for many years –
half a lifetime, it appears!

So sod the cheats who want your cash
to fund their G8 climate bash –
their pamplets as from brothers grim:
fraud, through fantasies of sin;
from Western witchdoctors,
who need
to blackmail people to succeed;
who yearn
to make us all believe
in blame and debt, and more regret –
that we be cowed
to pay and bow,
and never try to fathom how
a gas, which once ruled frozen Earth,
can now purvey a steaming curse:

or how the jetstream’s winding path —
that freezes Greece with Finland’s laugh,
as geomagnetised bends twist
from solar slumber’s cosmic waves,
and stoop 3,000 miles to kiss
Alaskan Frost to Everglades —
can vindicate said Man Made Warming,
when its models need stream flat,
and pole-shifted, sliding storming
winds, from tropics, to cold lats;

in imagined, bake-faked scam,
that moves sea-lows a country North,
so counter-clockwise cyclones strand
the Eastern beasts on arctic course –
and Europe sweats in Irish sauna,
West wind-washed, from system’s base:
drowning Christmas crystals, born to
sharpen land with frozen lace —

Yet even as the BEEB’s false heads
still blackmail joy with vulpine cries,
storm-lows are whipping South instead,
as East wind wake invites the glide
of feathered, Baltic gems that watch
the streets that, long, knew only damp;
that stamped the sleet to road-stained blotch,
and soaked, to dark, night’s moon-flaked lamp —

yet, frigid, marvelling, now inhale
the breath of Beast, as stir of white:
a silent cold that, vacuum-baled,
dries the coast with azure light —
whose herald-flakes dry gravity,
and dance, as wind-larks of the morning:
crystal witnesses, that free
world consciousness that cold is dawning;
swooping, bouncing,
soaring up,
as ghosts that hang in causal still;
Siberian dry, that lies, uncut,
in easy, fractal proof of chill;
as visitors from Starjik’s slopes,
whose flux is orchestra of truth,
and drawn, thus West, by vacuum volts,
of MiniIceAge patterns’ proof.

Ski the freezing, drifting dream:
a small ice age starts now, it seems!
Fetch your coat and scarf and sledge!
Dance with huskies’ bright eyed fun!
Sparkling frost for years is pledged –
diamond holograms to stun!

We’ll rejoice in Helios’ lore,
and surf the snow, and live the show,
of Solar Cycle Twenty Four –
go go go GO!!!

Copyright Jonathan Graham, 2014

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