Wednesday 14 December 2022

The war of the seasons

In October, it’s hand-to-hand combat, tree by tree
Winters says, ‘admit it mate, you can’t beat me.’

Summer says, ‘yeh, well I’m not rattled
Your dirty tactics won’t win this battle
I’m saving up daylight; I have plans for next year
Your leaves will rot and I have spears
I am returning, further down the road
In every garden, a crocus is waiting to explode’

 

In November, low pressure brings
Winter misery, a blizzard of metaphors
It’s the ‘beast from the east’ says the news
The experts advise us, ‘close your windows’
In December, in a railway carriage on frozen rails
The seasons bring out their finest brains
To broker a peace deal, once and for all
Despite their best efforts, it fails

 

January. Brooding skies lower like pewter
Battalions of mist creep down from the hills
Just when the ground seems to be lost
Summer brings up its special forces – the daffodils
In February the deadlock goes on. But, hear that sound?
The trees are whispering. Summer is tunnelling

It is marshalling an invisible army
of worms and microbes, deep underground

 

May. A sponsored walk is trashed by rain
Another disappointing bank holiday
In June, summer delivers a body blow –
Lovely weather for the flower show!
In July, a tornado attacks the Henley regatta
Summer says, ‘it really doesn’t matter
In August, winter, so quick to the wicket
Totally ruins a game of cricket

 

Still, it seems much hotter than before
There’s a reason, global warming has joined the war
Summer says to winter, ‘now I’m in clover
Admit it, bruv. The show is over.’
Winter replies ‘that means storms and flooding, right?
That will make for a bumpy ride
People are going to be terrified at night
Oh, by the way, spring and autumn are on my side.’

 

No they’re not, says summer. They are with me.’
And so it goes on, for centuries
Humans arrive and invent new technologies
They say that weather is isobars, not deities
But they act surprised, when rain stops play
They cannot erase their primitive fears
Of the irrational. They do not want to, actually

For, without them, there can be no poetry