Seasonal ritual, the radar’s red
inflames the continent. Expect its pus
to run and round into drops that will gush
from the dark peaks’ aerial watershed.
But it hasn’t happened, the forecast lies:
there is a sun it’s safe to sit down in
and let my lips and gums enstrawberize,
although I have an issue with my skin –
this weather thing is not a problem, guys,
until the offrun turns into a sled
launched at the wrong second, hoying down
its muddy herd of water through the town,
car-roofs a bobsleigh team of helmet heads
popping up like dots across the radar-hard Med.
Listen to Alistair Noon reading this poem on location in Sheffield:
This is the fourth of six sonnets to be uploaded as part of The Rose of Temperaments. A ‘variant’ text, with additional ‘footnotes’ from Chris Jones, appears here.