Sometimes the Great Conflagrations

Sometimes the great conflagrations
make no sound.
They come, softer than paw on snow,
they come shapeless as heat.
The greed that fuels them is so far away.
Who can make sense of it
who dwells in the imperiled distance?
He who has eyes to see, let him look.
In the Arctic spring, in the Arctic night,
the white bear
is hard hit now,
and not a gun in sight.

Illustration by Belle Mellor