With April about to end on something of a wet note, I thought it would be interesting to see what some of our greatest poets might have made of the recent weather. Through my spirit guide, Bob, I have been fortunate enough to channel the following works. You’re welcome.

Geoffrey Chaucer

Whan that aprill with his shoures great

The droghtes of march hath ended in a spate,

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages

(so priketh hem nature in hir corages)

To ferne shores, kowthe in sondry londes,

The sondry hermes luggages in hond,

And specially from every shires ende

Of engelond to gatywicke they wende.

Befil that in that seson on a day

In gatywicke at the wytherspoones I lay,

At nyght was come into that hostelrye

Wel nyne and twenty in a henne partye

That toward fair menorca wolden flye

Alle clad in shirtes of pinken vileynye

On which there was first write debbye

And after does doubles in letters glitterye

Now have I told you soothly, in a clause,

Th’ estaat, th’ array, the nombre, and eek the cause

Why that assembled was this compaignye

In gatywicke at this gentil hostelrye

And wel I woot, as ye goon by the weye

Ye care namoore than doth a popinjay

So now is not the tyme my tale to telle

And ye maun look away, saved by the belle.

　Samuel Taylor Coleridge

In Milton Keynes did Cameron

A stately water-park decree,

Where once a lot of buses ran

On routes inscrutable to man

(And pensioners went free).

So twice five miles of flooded ground

With walls and towers were girdled round :

And there were countless rides with sinuous thrills,

Where threw up several hoodie-wearing thugs;

And here were wardens ancient as the hills,

Enforcing the park’s ban on Class A drugs.

But oh ! that deep flume ride whose route was slanted

Down the artificial ski slope t’was athwart !

Ten pounds a ride ! the children were enchanted

Although the Harry Potter Broomstick ride was vaunted

By JK Rowling’s agent and his minions from Hogwarts !

And on this ride, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

Were all the kids who’d wet their pants, still breathing,

But only just: a drop of thirty feet had caused

Their bladders, spleens and colons to divorce !

William Blake

I paddle through each chartered Mall,
Near where the chartered Thames did flood,
And thank the Lord that I am tall,
And not susceptible to mud..

In every shop on Oxford Street
In every beauteous boutique built,
In each display that seeks to treat,
The major theme this year is silt:

How the Standard-vendor’s cries
Are lost amid the surging swell,
And Cockneys heave collective sighs,
Their whelk-stalls fathoms deeper dwell,

But most, through coursing streets I hear
How useless, ‘cross the nation,
The local flood defences are
When faced with inundation

William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a boat

That drifts on tides oe’r vale and hill

When all at once I saw, afloat,

A truck stacked with Viagra pills:

Alongside speed, betwixt some “E”s,

They must have been worth twenty Gs.

I tried to lasso, with a line,

The truck, ‘fore it could drift away:

It bobbed and weaved — the metal swine! —

It took the best part of the day:

At last I had it bang to rights,

And none too soon, t’was nearly night.

I paddled hard against the flow

But Newton’s First Law spoiled my dash:

So with the truck I had to go

Or loose my line and lose the stash;

I mulled–and mulled–but only thought

What wealth the drugs had nearly brought:

Now oft, when in my boat I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

I really wish I could untie

And let the drugs escape for good;

But then my brain with horror fills,

I’m so addicted to these pills.