It whirls, twirls and swirls as it curls it’s way through the tree tops,
quite oblivious that it’s blocking the rays of the sun.
This crone’s left to moan and groan she’s chilled to the bone, t’is supposed to be summer,
albeit appears we’re in for none
I swear ‘twas a dare to share how much skin I could bare as we’d planned a day at the beach,
the epitome of fun.
Plans lain in vain drive some insane like when fog rolls in leaving nothing to gain,
in the future all weather I’ll shun