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
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,
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