It’s days like this.

It’s days like this I wish I were at home. 

Here it’s hot and sticky and still, 

The sun is aching to set

And call it a day,

To take a break from non-stop work,

With never a cloud to let it shirk

And stretch and breathe,

Even for a moment.

And there?

There a wild wind whistles over Dolebury

And a crazy melee of pummeling gusts

Race in a rush to the hills of Wales.

They skim the cream from the deep, brown waves,

With a pause for applause from the soaring gulls 

Where the Severn has grown to a sea, 

And then corner at speed

Round the dark cliffs of Steep Holm.

It’s once round the Brecon Beacons,

Then back again south to Somerset

Where they howl around the old church towers,

And whistle up stone steeples

Till they’re home again on the Mendip hills,

And there they take a breather,

All just for fun.