The scorching sun,

had met its match,

in a frozen solid ground,

not a ball of snow to catch,

not a thing around.

The cold, black tar,


in it’s watery haze,

of slashing rubber, realized,

the suns in vain gaze.

The windows

masked by white mist,

trickling down to sleet,

footsteps the size of fists,

a little bundle meet.

Curled up,

into a shell,

as warm as would be,

in a cold, personal hell,

hair entagled, she.

A happy


a wilted walker sought,

is there no solution,

is a saviour nought?