Wombats

Short-legged, blunt-headed wombats hiding,

Grasses and trees; their food and homes dying.

Fires and floods are doing no good,

Say, “But wombats are safe!”

If only we could.

But wait, oh no, the flames are rising,

Floods are travelling at the speed of lightning.

No time to run, no time to flee,

Is it too late? No, it can’t be!

The wombats emerge from their underground home,

Looking around, they all let out a groan.

Everything gone, no tree in sight,

These poor wombats all stare in fright.

The nocturnal creatures resort to Plan B,

Watching, waiting, hoping to be free.

Free from the fire, free from the flames,

Free from the floods that cause them pain.