It’s days like this.

It’s days like this I wish I were away.  

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 hide behind

And stretch and breathe and rest

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.

Then they corner at speed

Round the dark cliffs of Steep Holm.

On Flat Holm they batter the lighthouse.

“Who’ll be the first to the top of the Sugar Loaf?”

Now they play hide and seek among the 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.