Under the Weather




I am awfully British. Terribly, terribly British. And it is an entirely correct accusation against us that we are fixated on our ever-changing weather. Our temperate maritime climate is just one endless kaleidoscopic mess. Every day is a sodden adventure. But we have incorporated this into our collective psyche, our language for moods, emotions, fears, aspirations. That, I think, can be quite beautiful. 


Like a passing cloud. You speak

About this mood as though

The weather itself is changeable, a

Storm in a teacup, prone

To blowing hot and cold, subject

To changing pressures.

You accuse us of pathetic fallacy.


The sky though, despite seeming

Ever-changeable, has memory.

She has played these colours

Countless times.

Over our heads she has draped

Herself in lilacs, lowering herself

To deeper hues, as she seeps in blue

Time and time again. She has

Never changed in that respect, my dear,


Delighting overhead,

Writing her own turns of phrase

And inspiring ours;

It may seem though it’s changing, but

It’s the same old dance of an shameless atmosphere.


And unlike our moods, the sky

Is endless.




2 thoughts on “Under the Weather

  1. What imaginative and interesting thinking. I look at the sky a lot. It is so much of the landscape here. And it’s a given. I like painting the sky and as it moves and twists and flutters about it seems to be teasing me. Less sky time in the winter but perhaps more weather. Painting sky is making a very definite statement. X Gran

    Sent from my iPad


  2. Dear James, This is SO lovely, perfect for reading aloud, very connecting to the reader in its tone of voice. A poem for painters who are always connecting to the sky as they try to see it in the complexity of colour. X Gran

    Sent from my iPad


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