FATHER, OH FATHER, I WISH TO COMPLAIN, I’M STUCK IN ENGAND AND THERE’S WEATHER HERE AGAIN

Seasons av all gorn wrong nah,

Down the tubes an up the spout,

We say, as we shiver in bus queues

In mid-May

There was an eatwave in February,

Young Buzzard flew in

Perched up a fruit tree

In a north London suburb

Sat mewing for mate

To make a nest together.

Gawd knows what

It thought it was going to eat

But the crows that run the sky round here

Chased the young buzzard away

Perhaps that annoyed god

Because  he or she or both or neither or several has been pissing on England ever since.

Or at least since

The government officially

Announced that there was drought

he or she or both or neither or several has

Been pissing here almost dally

Takes a break

Nah an ven

 from pissing on England, and

Maybe goes off to drink some more

Ambrosia or soma I suppose

Then when it stops

I scan the sky

Looking for knife winged screaming riders

Up on the cloud road

This is the time that

They should get here from Africa

No sight of them so far

But last night as another sodden gale blew in

I thought I heard swifts screaming up high in the dark,

But I might have been dreaming.

I checked sky again day after day

But it was a week till I was sure that I had seen

What I wanted to see

Six swifts slicing

Wide long blue skies

With black samurai wings

Not many

But at least enough

Had managed to

Come back home again.