Dear England

As my world fades to grey
mornings bring few surprises,
ears and eyes blurred
by the sound
of constant rain

Nature hacks and fumes,
drowns, through
over-burdened lungs;
coughs, 
while dribbling
incontinently;

as if a sense of purpose
drives her, to cleanse,
wash away completely; or
then again
warn, nothing is free.

cars kickstart,
a sense of guilt
cursing inaccessibility
down every street,
where foxes used to play;

ten green plastic bottles,
oil slicked beach and dunes;
burned down old mementoes
like Brighton Pier
all fading tunes;
each passing year.

A constant deluge creeps
the precipice;
while somewhere in our minds
a troubled song
replays the dirge,
Summer was never quite like this.