No Crisis

I walk about in my bag of ocean.
I carry the sea in My Water World.
Although it seems such a novel notion,
My main and my jib are both unfurled.
I sail swift currents in my inner sea,
Though it is tidal, at the Moon’s behest,
Whose slow and gentle force moves mightily
To alter and remake me without rest.
It’s easy to puncture my outer shell,
If you make a hole in me, I will leak.
Repairs are possible but hurt like hell,
And take longer if the bag’s an antique.
Yet denizens of my vast inner sea,
Claim no climate crisis inside of me.

Mick McKellar
September 2024