This poem was inspired by a visit Cambridge's Scott Polar Research Institute, which is a museum/library open to the general public as well as scholars. Recently a family day on the theme of polar bears was held.
Though the Cold War is over, paranoia
lives on, past the point of self-parody.
That polar bear, stuffed to within an inch
of its life, is a spy - its glacial stare
follows us everywhere. On the walls, photos
in frames show others of its kind - trophies
left to atrophy in cluttered stately homes,
yellowing like chain-smoking émigrés.
Though transport poses challenges,
we'll think laterally. This young explorer
(my son) favours hands and knees, and - who knows? -
maybe he'll be the first to swim to the poles!
Though we're the only visitors,
a colony of souls convenes to hush
these halls, to hover round the strong room
where brave mens' letters gather dust.
Like bubbles that burst at a touch, the future
melts as we learn new ways to move on.
Though we are free, this morning, to idle,
this is the tip of time's iceberg.
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