Strange, how this day of love Is a day of sneezes and fingers numb. Why does it fall with a deathly chill As the hothouse roses succumb ? Maybe it serves to underscore How love is often bittersweet – Whereas, in the height of Summer, This day would be lost in the endless heat.
Strange, how this day of red Is a day of snowdrops and Winter mould. Why does it fall when the days are short And the nights are bitterly cold ? Maybe it serves to warm the frost, And give our torpid hearts a shove – Whereas, in the height of Summer, Who needs a reminder to fall in love ?
Frost fairs upon the Thames, they never happen these days – Snow just once or twice a year is all we get round here. Curses to the Gulf Stream, damn your warming ways ! Snow just once or twice a year, and Spring is always near. And it’s shut down the town again, It’s shut down the town, my dear, Shut down the trains and the drains and the pier.
Nobody is ever ready when it comes a-falling, Never dressed for proper cold in proper Winter gear. Nobody is ever ready when the snow is balling, Before they’ve even had a fight, the flurries disappear. And it’s back to the rain again, It’s back to the rain, my dear, Back to the grey – and it’s here to stay, I fear.
There is time to be festive And time to be restive, A time for a breather From excess and fun. Janu’ry’s time is busy and new, For getting to do what we should have got done.
There is time for the goblins, And squirrels and robins, A time for Orion And waiting for snow. Janu’ry’s time is starry and dark – The weather is stark and the sun is hung low.
There is time to prepare For the snowdrop and hare – It’s time to plant onions And harvest the swedes. Janu’ry’s time is whitened and browned, Spent prepping the ground and in sowing the seeds
There is time for mysterious, Time for the serious, Time to be golden, And time to be grey. Janu’ry’s time is the sober and young, For getting things done in the short Winter day.
Koala bears in woolly hats, Emus strutting in the snow Spruces march across the Outback – Let it go, Oz, let it go… I know you’re mostly immigrants From colder, Northern climes, But not all cult’ral heritage Will work in modern times. Ditch the chimney for a combi, Lose the furry robes and gloves, Let the gum replace the holly, Let the budgies play the doves. Embrace your new contrariness, Your world turned upside down – This Winter masquerade is not The only game in town. Santa chilling by the barbie, Kangaroos to haul the sleigh, Redback’s guarding Baby Jesus – Season’s greetings, and g’day.
How far into the Autumn dare we edge Without a proper coat ? Using jackets and jumpers as a bridge To keep our hopes afloat – Pretending the Summer is lurking still Whenever the morning’s bright, But getting caught by an unexpected chill That serves us right. And yet, if we keep moving about On the sunny side of the street, It’s almost warm enough for going out In the dying heat. So please, just one more week before we don Our bulky Winter coats, When the pre-frost says that the Summer’s gone, And the tardy North Wind gloats.
Just as a church is crowned by a spire, And just as the spire is crowned by a cross, So the cross is crowned by a stiffened wire That points heavenwards and reaches higher, Showing God that science is boss. From king to serf to country squire, Nobody’s prayers and nobody’s choir, To God or Thor or Helios, Can stop the bolt of electric fire – Not any pope or priest or friar Can tame the spark and spare the loss Like copper can. And that is why There’s a spike that jabs the eye of the sky, With a finger raised to the holy man on high.
The very first drops and we’re under attack,
The sun is in hiding, the sky is in black,
We pull on our coat and we button our mac,
And we rush to get out of the rain.
Sheltered in doorways and clustered by trees,
We’re watching the drops as they dance in the breeze,
And cursing the spray and the drizzle and freeze,
As we long to get out of the rain.
Some make a dash, be they brave or naive,
Breaking from cover when showers reprieve –
Darting from shelter to harbour they weave
As they run to get out of the rain.
Some, with umbrellas, just pleasantly stroll,
Dry and protected with weather control,
But puddles and splashes may yet take their toll,
And so teach to get out of the rain.
The streets have all emptied, the crowds have gone home
The bird have all vanished, the bees seek the comb,
The colours are muted, the world monochrome
As the world must get out of the rain.
The gutters are flooding, and eaves getting drowned,
The kerbs are a torrent, the drains are unbound,
The fountains are pointless, and springs are uncrowned,
As they wait to get out of the rain.
But beauty is here, of a different strain,
For not ev’ry downpour’s a twelve-hurricane,
Why, just ask the ducks why they choose to remain,
And never get out of the rain.
The temp’rature is stalling,
And the air is tinged with tin,
The mercury is falling,
And the front is moving in.
The cumulus is clumping,
And the sun is shafting gold,
The Ninety-Nines are slumping,
And the mugginess turns cold.
The temp’rature is dropping,
And the singing birds are stopping,
And the ringing ears are popping,
And the air is tinged with tin.
The woodpecker is calling,
And weathercock is squalling,
And the mercury is falling,
And the front is moving in.
The chimneypots are whistling,
And the flies have stopped their buzz,
The static cling is bristling,
And the cats are balls of fuzz.
The thunderheads are stacking,
And the grey is turning black,
The sun is wholly lacking,
And the thunder starts to crack.
The temp’rature’s adjusting,
And the herald-winds are gusting,
And the anvil-tops are thrusting,
And the air is tinged with tin.
The heavy drops are splashing,
And the lightning-bolts are flashing,
And the mercury is crashing,
And the front is moving in.
