I reach into my ancient bag,
My old umbrella, for to seek.
From disuse, it’s now a rag
And, when it rains, it’s sure to leak.
Of what use is the outside world?
Not air-conditioned like at home,
The elements against me hurled
If I decide outdoors to roam.
Why can’t the world be more serene?
It’s certainly a pleasant blue.
Vindictive, vengeful, it can seem,
Its violence is never through.
Torrential rain some people cop,
While others meet a baking drought.
Snow and ice – it doesn’t stop –
And howling winds our efforts flout.
Our greatest minds can surely do
Much better than they have ‘til now.
With climate change, perhaps it’s true?
We’ve made a start, so take a bow!
4 December 2015