Stuck

stuck

The twisting track is sorbet-crusted now –
The thaw has come, the car sinks into ice.
The only way is back, not knowing how
To steer, reversing down the inky splice
Between the birches bending through the muck.
And foolish Brit, he knows before it’s done,
Will verge-wards veer, and find himself quite stuck.
Long journey ends, fresh panic has begun.
A doughty Finn to rescue comes with smirk,
Polite, he doesn’t say what he must think –
The foreign fool has much to learn, the jerk.
The car begins to move, to pulley’s clink.
Inside again, in forest’s mousey womb,
New metaphor for life begins to loom.

Rupert Moreton

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