January has not seen any snow
since I was last in short trousers
and my boyish knees used to glow
bright purple above welly-boots.
False February tells tales of Spring
with such convincing fervour
that every living thing
awakes, bleary-eyed, too soon.
March is more malicious than mad,
as it revels in its mood swings
from sunny to frosty, through sad
tantrums and dry-eyed tears.
In town, April is a calmer time,
though I know nothing of the country,
for I live within the micro-clime
of London, like a world apart.
May is all of Summer in one day,
which entices office girls to burn
bare shoulders and display
their tan streaked cellulite.
Her sister June is such a slut;
all blowzy heat and fevered sleep
in tangled sheets, but
moist and fresh each morning.
July’s cold showers soon put paid
to any lusty notions,
with a sudden drop in centigrade
and rising of flood water.
Escape in August to another shore,
where there are no consequences
and I can blithely ignore
the fact: one man’s paradise is another’s slum.
September’s return to work and school
marks maybe the most perfect month,
with both Summer’s heat and Autumn’s cool
in balance at the equinox.
Yet, October still holds some surprise
in store, with a final heat wave
which confuses each bird that flies
in all directions but for South.
November fails to catch a chill,
even though it strips the trees at last
and paints frost patterns on the hill;
the sun a late ripened golden delicious.
It is forever Xmas in December,
but like Narnia in reverse,
it never turns to Winter,
except in shopping mall simulations.
