Running back from Istanbul in the winter of 82.
I was told to fetch a reload that I didn’t want to do
The final consignment of a knitwear order,
From a factory up near the Russian border.
The time that frostbite nearly claimed my toes,
When with two hours to go and my filters froze.
So I lit little fires in anything made of tin,
Built a wall of snow to try and keep the heat in.
Kept them burning, both day and night,
Checking every hour to keep them alight.
Diesel fuel and some rag for a wick,
Then after three days, it did the trick.
And in all that time before that thing would start,
All that stopped to help was a horse and cart.
A nice old couple who gave me some bread.
They offered a room, but I stayed instead,
Cold and tired and filthy dirty
On a north Romanian plain at minus 30.
Another trip full of trouble and strife,
Surely the coldest days of my life.
But wait, maybe, I spoke too soon,
I’m parked at the ‘J in Saskatoon.
And it’s colder than the North Pole!