For many people the weather is just a menial form of small
talk, but I find it fascinating. I relish the feel of rain dripping down my
face and soaking my hair (unless I have someplace important to be), and I
cherish each moment of blessed sunshine warming my entire body. I mean, come
on, the very name Word Storm should
tell you something about my inclination towards weather, particularly in its
extremes.
If there’s one thing the English like to talk about, it’s
the weather. Having spent nearly a year studying abroad in England, I’ve
experienced plenty of England’s internationally-acclaimed horrid weather. But come on, it’s not that bad, right? A little
rain never hurt anybody. But, as Alan Parish (Jumanji) reminds everybody, “Yeah, but a lot can kill you!” Well,
as you can see, I’m not dead yet. Key word: yet.
Besides, England is not the only place known for weird
weather. Washington State gets rain year-round so that when the sun comes out,
locals refer to it as a “sun break.” Missouri has a claim on having bipolar
weather. In other words, residents experience four seasons in one week. I kid you
not, I got sunburned in January because I was wearing a tank top and had the
sunroof down. Then it snowed. So England may not be the only place on earth with odd weather, but it certainly has some.
One of the most recent examples of English weather I’ve
experienced was the brief-lived summer. Being so far north, instead of hot
summer days, England gets—you guessed it—rain. But there are times when the sun
comes out from behind the clouds. This phenomenon is often referred to as the “three
day of summer”. (Never mind that we had a full week of glorious sunshine and
that random day in February.) And that’s what this poem is about
really—weather. Well, that and bugs and people and bike rides and tea. Lots and
lots of tea.
Some Notes on the Three Days of Summer
England is like a sleepy giant,
hitting the snooze button again
while the rest of the world is
waking from winter.
Just five more days, and suddenly
it’s spring,
everywhere it’s green like the
nation finally shook itself awake
and downed a cup of Earl gray. It’s
a dour May,
but the daisies are alive and
doleful, dancing beneath a cloud-streaked sunset.
Suddenly it’s summer—the perfect
warm weather to get outside.
I’ve been sunburned in England of
all places. #Lifegoals
I should not be punished for
actually leaving the flat.
Where did all these people come
from?
Who knew so many resided in the
city?
They’re like cockroaches—fair
weather friends—
and summertime has disturbed their
peaceful rock.
My flat mates call it hot, but my
skin knows the difference
between this English sun and an
Italian one.
This mild sweat is nothing compared
to the blistering heat of the south.
A warm breeze tickles the hair on my
bare arms,
and the oak’s shade offers a cool
solace.
The only clouds now are the bugs by
the river,
thick as thieves. The blasted bugs
are pelting my face
as I cycle through them. Help. I’ve
inhaled a gnat.
The thing is tickling my sinuses
with its tiny little legs.
Getitout-getitout-getitout!
The other day, I sauntered into a
café
to meet a girl for afternoon coffee
and cake.
Before the sun sank another even’, I
curled up on a couch,
a cup of tea in my hands, amongst
friends on a movie night.
Finally—finally—I’m not alone.
But why is it people decide to wave
hello
just as I’m breaths away from
smelling the fresh black ink of my itinerary?
I don’t miss the winter. My spirits
soar
as the days stretch before me like a
cat before a sunshiny window,
like a dog sprawled out in the flood
of light—the ray of death.
Next week’s forecast: rain.
***
Let’s chat! What’s your favorite
type of tea? Do you think your hometown has the weirdest weather? If so, why?
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