We were feeling creative whilst out caching, hope you like our
poem!
In geocaching nobody opens rusty entrances, their hinges in
steel lie in numerical evolution.
Nobody finds it very easily, the hands run ever easterly.
Only noted experts search in xrays.
One nomad enters north in nine ecosysyems, never interfering near
ecology.
When two women organise feckless orienteering, run to your true
host, remember, everything evolves.
Zebras eventually roam onwards, finding out uprooted relics,
efficiently intercepting geocachers hiding there.
Wandering eccentric legionnaires leave dusty obsolete novels
everywhere.
(Oh, and the name Halfway home? Quite simply, it's roughly the
halfway point between Hazel's work, and where she used to
live!)