On this sodden April day, I’ve had some 650 year old lines of poetry from Geoffrey Chaucer going round and round in my head –
Whan that Aprille with her shoures soote
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour,
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heath
The tender croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the ram his halfe cours yronne,
And smale fowles maken melodye
That slepen al the night with open ye.
Perhaps I was a literature student for too long.