A passing pig’s wingbeat awakes me today,
as it battles along in the breeze,
and a twig from a cuckoo’s nest sticks to the blood
oozing out of the stone that I squeeze.
The needle I find in a haystack still carries
a camel stuck fast in its eye,
while the gold coins I dig at the end of the rainbow
secure me some sky-gathered pie.
All these things I might do or believe to be true
before lunch any day of the year,
but I can't see our short-sighted leaders unearthing
the courage to tackle our fear
of a burnt, shrivelled world – so the ice over Hell
will sigh thinly, and then disappear.
