I was pottering around my garden this morning bemoaning the lack of sun to ripen the glut of green tomatoes and was inspired to write you a poem about it.
Great British summer
We peek through the curtains for ten months a year,
Praying that some form of sun has appeared.
We’ve suffered the ice and the sludge and the rain,
Now we need warmth to relieve aches and pains.
Of all the beleaguered but hopeful of bands,
Are those so disposed to live off the land.
They scurry and plant with the last of the frosts,
Only to find that their crops are all lost.
Those that avoid the greed of the slugs,
The attack of the birds and the onslaught of bugs.
Will probably rot under sodden conditions,
Or suffer the venom of cats on a mission.
On occasions when veggies or fruits do survive,
There’s no hope their crop will keep them alive.
For the Great British Summer is famously brief,
So nothing will ripen to eat with their beef.
Gardens across our green pleasant land,
Are dripping with unfulfilled fruit of the damned.
In the end, green tomatoes are cut down abruptly,
And made into endless, despised jars of chutney.
On the plus side, the Honeysuckle looks and smells amazing and gives me hope that I won’t be lumbered with vinegary green tomato chutney again this year!