Full moon. High tide. High seas. Pacific sweeps 

across the 101, laps the dunes, 

forces our patio dining indoors 

where waves slam the plate-glass windows,

 where the teenage girl at the next table shrieks 

as each wave hits, her temples wet with sweat.

We laugh with her family as she subsides 

to anxious giggles until the next wave 

crashes. And the next. It gets a bit much. 

She gasps, says some­thing about apocalypse.

Her parents frown. Beside us, a grizzled

surfer dude sucking a crab claw hisses. 

I nod sym­pa­thet­i­cal­ly to the girl, 

give her a thumbs up.

But then the waiter brings our dinners.

We leave her to her fear, which is really rage,

and which we (our years mostly behind us) 

pretend is youth­ful the­atrics so we 

can focus on the bounty mound­ing our plates. 

I lift my fork as another wave hits, 

a window seam splits, 

a trickle of sea seeps across the floor. 

I angle my chair away.

Beyond spider-webbed glass, ghost-white gull 

flies low over white-toothed water.

Search­light moon looms closer, 

illu­mi­nates 

our faith­less faces. 

*(Greta Thun­berg, Glasgow, 2021, after COP26 climate summit)