Heat on the doorstep, potholed streets
where glare of cars and tarmac meet.
Today starts wrong.
Roses at Christmas, shouts in streets
where strangers dare not stop to meet.
Now weather’s wrong.
Ground cracks. In the half-shuttered streets
bread prices soar. Boots and head meet.
The climate’s wrong.
If you have any comments on this poem, Alison
Brackenbury would be pleased to hear from you.