Waging war on methene and black carbon,
we went for a full electric, though tempted
by a hybrid with its suggestion of roses.
At first recharging felt like the plugging in
of a toothbrush or phone, but that soon passed,
along with a fear of sparking electrocution.
The old ways not missed, except perhaps,
at times, for the scallop topped pumps, fix
a sniff of petrol gives, the spilt rainbows
in forecourt puddles on days dull as asphalt.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Stephen Bone would be pleased to hear them.