This Whitsun, I’ve been prompt getting away;
I’M ON THE TRAIN.
Ten twenty on a rainy Friday did
My three-quarters full train pull out King’s Cross.
My bag and coat piled up beside me so
To deter any neighbour who might chat;
The prospect of four hours to myself,
Away from school-work; clearing out the loft,
Too precious to be given up to talk
On whether we will ever get a summer.

Besides shivering sheep under cloudy
Lincolnshire sky,
We run. No doubt the ewes bleeting about
The rain and if we’ll ever get a summer.
Between the non-descript towns, there is the
Sometimes flash of gleaming yellow but from
Fields of rape-seed, not the sun who has flown
South for summer.  Any Whitsun brides will
No doubt be on Ebay, searching for the
Latest line in ivory umbrellas.

I missed the quiet carriage, so I know
My opposite
Has a GP appointment and no milk
And, to my left, two stout Scottish grandmas
Discuss their phone providers.  We now pass
Neat gardens; plants appreciating rain,
No doubt more than I.  They bring to mind my
Own unkempt deep beds.  But I have packed my
Sinemet and spade; Bridlington bound to
See DearHeart and BraveHeart, no time now for
Whitsun weeding.