British Summer

“The poetry of earth is never dead.”
A man (who now lies beneath it) said.
I believe he was talking of nature’s song;
An eclectic symphony that can’t go wrong.
And yet still, he spoke of England.

Our favourite subject is the weather;
It’s a breeze that flows light as a feather.
Only sometimes it doesn’t look nice out there –
Why on earth did we bother to brush our hair,
On this summer’s day in England?

The moment we spot a sprinkle of snow,
To social media we’re eager to go,
Uploading our pictures and spreading the news,
“A whole inch of it here! You’ll need your snow shoes!”
And panic ensues in England.

A few days later the snow sticks around,
Turning to ice (or worse, sludge) on the ground.
We’re trapped in our houses, refusing to drive,
Hoping we’ve got enough tea to survive
To the end of the week, in England.

The next month we’re dealing with violent gust,
That we greet with a similar tone of disgust,
For with such a bad storm and with wind this brisk,
Even the patio furniture’s at risk,
This scary Sunday in England.

At last, a heatwave! We’re filled with delight;
We can sit in the sun and stay there til night!
The barbecue’s going, we all stay outside,
Til it’s not just the chicken that’s looking fried.
Everyone’s sunburnt in England.

It doesn’t take long til the question is asked:
“Has anyone here seen the weather forecast?”
Percentages read give a strong chance of rain,
But most of the time the prediction’s the same,
When it comes to the weather in England.

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