Dear Imogen,

Be of good cheer,

it’s not the North that’s grim.

It’s just perfidious Albion

that causes such precipitation.

 

When you were born

the stars aligned and

in conjunction with the sun,

seduced the Jet Stream’s aerial flight,

‘Till North and South shone as one.

 

Imagine then a sunny day,

when fields of daffodils hold sway,

and Bluebells form a woodland carpet

for your weary toes to tread,

while blossom dances on the breeze,

settling on grassy bed. 

 

As the soporific climate

causes drowsy languid state,

lay you down on woodland turf;

Peter Rabbit’s at the gate.

Asking, ‘will you stay for tea?

With Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail and me’?

 

[ Reply to a postcard from my 1 year old granddaughter Imogen’s

parents following her first visit to the Lake District ]