The cloud

The cloud

I float on high o’er vales and hills
Looking for hosts of daffodils
But spring has gone until next year
There are no daffodils I fear

So I head off south and on the way
Pass Manchester where my brothers play.
Still I float south until at last
With tempting games of cricket passed

My mind’s made up to go and try
To find a bigger fish to fry.
The north wind blows me on and on
Till I arrive at Wimbledon

But now I’m feeling tired and old
So gratefully I dump my load
Of heavy rain.

That puts paid to Henman’s game.