First Week of June

In the first week of June,
the heavens verily did open,
causing a cascade of water droplets
to descend unceasingly upon
the denizens of the West Riding.
Even the little quackers
(who the weather
was supposedly good for)
and the teenytiny gooselings
were heard to pipe up
in their waterside pubs:
By 'eck, it's a bit wet.

Now here we jolly well are,
standing at the crossroads in the rain,
led to believe we've come so far
on the road from austerity to prosperity,
but we've been crawling
on our hands and knees
and we don't seem to be
getting any closer
to the utopia,
to the Valhalla,
to the dream that can never come true,
that was never really meant for the likes of you.

Like that holiday to Normandy in '86,*
I feel like I've been dragged along.
It's surely just a matter of days
before they start to shoot the braying throng?

But what's that over yonder?
Is it the sun, breaking through the clouds?
Dare I trust my eyes and ears?
Can I hear the faint sound of hope?
I'm so tired and broken and weary.
I can't bring myself to look.

B.R. 08/06/2017

* Thanks, Mum & Dad. Love you lots.