Psyche you bore, not too heavy a load
Took her to Cupid, the Ancients did sing.
The best way to fly, for her just the thing,
Not your fault the pain that thenceforward flowed.
Pilgrims afoot on the old frog and toad,
Geoffrey heaped praise on you, herald of Spring.
Writers a-plenty have blessed what you bring -
Young Percy the poet wrote you an ode.
For some reason things do not seem the same
This western wind now’s an icy, cold blast
Why did it all go so horribly wrong?
That wretched jet stream is what we must blame.
Mild, gentle breezes – a thing of the past?
Poor Zephyrus – have you sung your last song?
© John Welford
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