Friday, 21 December 2012

Ode to British Weather

The morning mist shifts,
silver-white
and tinged with regret.
(Its place, the cold night,
calls it home)

As first rays break the
horizon,
day birds sing "Morning!"
Breakfast hunt aided
by the light

Each glowing red and
gold-edged cloud,
dipped in light and hung;
a prideful banner
to the sun

"Red?" You ask, "Like tales
of shepherds,
warning of something
yet more foul than
what has gone?"

"This is British sky!"
Sun's reply
echoes through chimneys;
mirthless laughter
borne on wind

The clouds lose their glow
(red replaced
with regimented
grey and silver
standard drab)

And rain follows fast.
Rivers rise
to meet the endless
flow of soft and
heavy dreich

"Enough!" You call, "I
leave! Away!
Monaco, or some
sunny bay on
holiday!"

But, if you go, you
will return.
For who wouldn't miss
the lush green hills
of Britain?

When all's said and done,
we complain
too much. You don't know...
tomorrow might
be sunny...

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