Be of good cheer,
it’s not the North that’s grim.
It’s just perfidious Albion
that causes such precipitation.
When you were born
the stars aligned and
in conjunction with the sun,
seduced the Jet Stream’s aerial flight,
‘Till North and South shone as one.
Imagine then a sunny day,
when fields of daffodils hold sway,
and Bluebells form a woodland carpet
for your weary toes to tread,
while blossom dances on the breeze,
settling on grassy bed.
As the soporific climate
causes drowsy languid state,
lay you down on woodland turf;
Peter Rabbit’s at the gate.
Asking, ‘will you stay for tea?
With Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail and me’?
[ Reply to a postcard from my 1 year old granddaughter Imogen’s
parents following her first visit to the Lake District ]