Sticking with my blog’s theme of failing to stick to a theme, I’m sharing a poem I wrote a few years back about the unpredictable, and usually disappointing, British summer.
The Heatwave
A heatwave this weekend! Twenty-seven and dry!
If the wind doesn’t alter, if the pressure stays high.
Dig out the barbeque, sun shades and lotion.
We’ll have a lovely time! Who needs the ocean?
Sunday will be better, that’s certain at least.
We’ll still have a chance for our barbeque feast.
Find the lawn-tennis bats, the balls and the net.
The sun may not last long – we must be all set!
Well it wasn’t that hot and it started to rain,
But damp char-grilled sausages still taste the same.
Bring in the lawn tennis, but don’t put it away.
It’s supposed to be warm for another few days.
We’ll play in the evenings; it hardly gets dark.
We’ll eat ice cream coming home through the park.
We’ll go to the pub and drink summery drinks.
Will it be weather for sandals, d’you think?
Another dull evening, some more heavy rain,
Another day shivering in shorts on the train.
Where’s this heatwave they promised? Is it still out at sea?
But it’s meant to be better by Friday, you’ll see.
Friday it is, then! I hardly can wait.
Get plenty of lager and some cheap paper plates.
Where’s the lawn tennis set? Did you put it away?
We can leave work quite early, make the most of the day.
Well, beer works the same if it’s sunny or wet.
Hope the rain doesn’t ruin the lawn tennis set.
We’ll order a pizza, we can still have some fun.
James Bond’s on the telly – who needs the sun?
“Temperatures plummet, a ground frost tomorrow.”
The length of the country, spines slump with sorrow.
“Better luck next year,” is that what he said?
Oh hang the lawn tennis! Let’s fly to the Med!
K C Murdarasi 
😊