Tracks

Though poles apart, snow, ice the norm,

whilst equatorial, sun burns,

but temperate must take fair share,

until, unless, changed climate found

to cause disorder, our backyard.

So in this mean time, in between,

whilst some deny, and others sink,

though many think God’s will enhanced -

those current floes yet few affect;

but nature moved as many slept.

The traffic slows, so fumes reduce,

except in temper from inside,

exhausting all with slip and slide;

the pillow, which for why preferred,

and bed spread laid our attitude.

The blanket drifts but bed recalls,

so ours is lie-in, buried state;

will we awake to paler shades,

far ghosts of coral, reefs in grief,

our habit, tat, upcycled ware?

You see far off, middle of road,

fired legs take pace, where tyres have tried;

for now that might be fine, indeed,

but soon, experience will turn

tired walker back, track pilgrim path.