climate strange (a poem)

Will this Summer go on?

Weeks now of gloriousness

No hint of rain

No familiar puddles of depression

Is it really Summer at all?

Am I dreaming?

Will I shortly awake, finding myself still in April;

About to face 6 months of cloud and damp?

It feels abnormal

British Summers are traditionally disappointing

Festering coughpools of storms and dampity

Yes – I’m making words up now.

When Shakespeare did it he was called a genius

So I’m doing it too

If you don’t like it – bite me

Bite me like a rabid dog bites a passing postman’s sock.

Maybe I should plan my poems

Pouring words forth without self-edit is fun

But is it worth reading?

Or a jumbled fussment of pithy pitfilling?

Only you, dear reader, can decide.

I blame the heat.

RC 23-7-18

1638 BST