From time to time I like to ruin one of the Nation’s favourite poems, as voted some years ago in a BBC poll. This time I have been musing on the hottest ever February, in doing so, have taken an axe to Rudyard Kipling’s fabulous The Glory of the Garden (here, if you don’t know it).
*the images are from my garden over the last few, rather extraordinary days…
Our England is a garden that is full of stately views,
Though you’d really have to wonder if you listened to the news.
The anchors turn you icy with all their talk of wars
While sneery politicians debate like old pub bores.
But while they focus their trite ire on running down the clock
The world that matters to us all is preparing its own shock.
It’s fed up with the disregard with which we’ve treated it
And soon enough will prove to us we’ve not defeated it.
With little thought for others we have wasted nature’s gift
And made a virtue out of spending when sense demanded thrift
Consumption of resources has become our default state
And while we try and change our habits it may be far too late.
The icecaps are receding as the desert centre grows
And winter months seem like June with little chance of snow.
And all the time that the chatterati’s attention is elsewhere
Our hopes of changing course are as doomed as the polar bear.
So enjoy those simple pleasures in England’s pleasant garden
Before nature’s patience ends and her heart begins to harden.
For it’s not beyond imagining that soon will come the day
When the Glory of England’s Garden shall finally pass away.