[Brian Allgar]

I caught this morning the morning news: O, ring
xxBells for the birth of this royal baby, born belatedly,
xxThis diapered dauphin, this minuscule monarch-to-be,
This princely homunculus, a fragile little thing
Trapped in the folds of time, timorously waiting to spring
xxInto childhood, adulthood, late middle-age, waiting patiently
xxFor his forebears to pass, and to fulfil his destiny
After dull, dutiful decades, by becoming King.

But more news followed, deadlier, drearier: the sizzling
xxHeatwave is nearing its end, the forecasts say,
And to darkling downpour, to dank cloud-disgorged drizzling,

xxThe blue-brilliant gold-gashed sky must soon give way.
England’s cricketers shall find their courage failing, fizzling
xxOut, crushed by that dread pronouncement: “Rain stopped play.”