by Angela Prew

Grey skies hang above
this drought-dried, hose-denied island.
Clouds burst daily, flooding fields,
rivers run through country roads,
flow unstopped into churning seas.
Emerald banks are jewelled with Spring flowers.’
Red campions, bluebells, primroses,
blooming together, decorate hedgerows.

but where is Summer?

Summer is a diamond pageant.
An Armada leads the Queen and Duke,
down the tideless Thames.
The banks are lined with cheering crowds
loyally standing, drenched by chilling rain.
Throughout this celebrating land
flags hang damply, street parties move indoors,
people run for shelter

and Summer stays away.

The day has come, our bags are packed,
the car stands at the door. .
We’re going home, where Winter waits
and snow lies on the mountain peaks,
where the skies are blue and sunshine
lights our days.
When rain does fall it’s welcome rain
filling empty dams.
and, here, we never need pretend

it’s Summer.


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