The daffodil peeks a cautious head,
Above the frosty flower bed,
Wonders, do I bloom chrome yellow,
To sway in sunlight warm and mellow.
But then it sees the flecks of snow,
Thinks it’s time for me to go,
And shrinks back down into the earth,
Quite postpones the Spring rebirth.
And in the parks and gardens bright,
Bulbs all follow Daffy’s plight,
And baron earth does greet our eye,
As we shuffle, moan and sigh,
To our bleak and daily toil,
Past the bare unbroken soil,
But smiling as we change our clocks,
Though wrapping up in gloves and socks.
Summer’s here, the Government says,
It’s official, longer days,
But the flowers shake their heads,
Stay beneath their frozen beds.
It’s not summer, you on high,
We’re staying put till next July.
But the men from Whitehall know,
It’s illegal now to snow.
So they tell the steely skies,
Please turn blue, but, big surprise,
Like Canute, their edicts spurned,
Their writs and sanctions duly burned,
As we mutter, what a bummer,
Another freezing British summer.