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.
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