Twenty-Two degrees in March – it can’t be right,
This could be Lisbon rather than London,
Kuwait instead of Kew,
The tropical plants photosynthesise joyfully
In the humid hothouses,
Where menopausal women pull at their blouses,
Complaining about the heat,
Saying how they wished they’d worn a skirt or a dress,
Instead of trousers,
If only they’d known it would be twenty-two at Kew.
Obese dogs pant more than usual
As they waddle along beside their perspiring owners.
The daffodils can’t take the heat
The snowdrops have all melted,
Cherry blossom falls like summer snow
And tulips, thinking that they’re late,
Strive to grow and bloom before spring has gone
And larger plants emerge to steal the light.
Meanwhile, on TV and radio, weather forecasters enthuse
About records broken, each year hotter than the one just past,
And smile and laugh, happy to pass on the news
That we shouldn’t get used to it;
The good weather isn’t due to last.
But for now, it’s twenty-two at Kew.
A bit late, I know – as we’re approaching the middle of April, but it was only at the end of March, and poems, and blog posts, take time to write. Sadly, it wasn’t twenty-two in March here in South Wales, although we did at least see the sun.
It was hotter still the weekend just past – up to the mid-twenties in the south east. I wonder if we’re going to have a good summer this year, or if this is just an unseasonal blip…