There are times when British weather really gets me down . . . but without it, what an earth would we talk about?
Harsh pitter, patter falling of
relentless heavy rain.
Strong winds are howling round about:
sweet summer here again.
Rivers running, rising, rushing,
banks are fit to burst.
Brollies blowing inside out
as weather does its worst.
Kids go wild inside the house
as cabin-fever strikes.
Huddled walkers brave the wilds
while scaling dizzy heights.
Windscreen wipers swish and swash
and puddles pool in lanes.
Streams are forming down the streets
from overflowing drains.
Campers sodden in their tents,
they dream of sunshine bliss –
keeping warm and dry is their
one and only wish.
But twenty minutes later and
the sky’s a brilliant blue.
Birds are calling out their songs
to me, to us, to you.
British weather’s changeable.
It switches hour by hour.
A talking point for all of us
from sun to snow to shower.
So armed with sun cream, sun hat and
a brolly, just in case . . .
I’m ready for whatever
British weather makes me face.
© Nicky Clifford 2016