I've had quite enough
of sloshing about in sleety rain in my sabots.
I've had it with
scurrying from car fug to shop warmth,
low energy lightbulbs,
peering out a grimy grey skies,
emptying gritty ash from grates,
shivering in the shower,
hunching my shoulders,
scarfing my neck,
hatting my head,
gloving my hands.
The Toast spring catalogue has arrived.
and weather girls
forecasting sensible centigrades
in double digits.
Sixteen would suffice.