An Octave of Seasonal Comparison

Last year the mood was dictated by sunrise,
Consciousness caused such sweet collapse,
Within a sun lounger,
Lashings of creamed sun,
And you’re gently baking skin,
Gas mark 9,
Giving you that eastern European chic,
While you sip,
From refreshing circumferences of pint,
Bear it milk,
Or beer,
It’s almost always hollow,

This year,
Just sulk,
Hold steady,
The waves at your door,
With sandbags and glad rags,
Anything you can lay your hands on,
And pray the cellar door is sealed,

You’re washing now brown,
Covered in the muck of the river,
Black steeds of true warming now enter your home,
In saturated dregs of water,
Think slough attracting the insects forthright,
Fountains erupt from your armchair,
Remote in the river,
Switching channels in the sediment.