The trees come all the way down to the water

“The trees come all the way down to the water”

The BBC told me

It would only by thirteen in Jersey.

Thirteen Degrees C!

The same as the South Coast across the sea?

But it was warmer there

And emptier

And friendlier

The BBC didn’t tell me that.

I counted the clouds:

On Monday

There weren’t any;

On Tuesday

Clouds I sought ,

But there were naught;

On Wednesday I looked, but no,

Still zero.

So sitting on a beach

Under fierce furnace fire

In April

Where the trees come all the way down to the water

And the super-slow-motion crash of azure waves,

Diamond-tipped on golden sands.

In April

I figure that what the BBC

Told me

About Jersey

Was wrong.