Spring Ice

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Honourable mention in the 1st Jackpine Sonnet Contest.

Quickly! The river is rising. Hurry,
move the hives. The apiary floor
is awash, and a sea of grey slurry
laps against the welding shop door.

Dirty pans are rafting. And along the bridge
flannel elbows rub and watch the high hoe
race the river, stacking ice along the bank, 
a metal Sisyphus amid the fractured willows.

What of the Council? And the new dam?
The studies, consultants, the promises given?
What of Mike’s livestock? Art’s corncrib? My van?
Did that bottle of whiskey mean nothing?

And where is the science to hold back our tears,
to lull us to sleep when the river draws near?