I posted my earlier weather poem on the Weathercheck group blog, and one of the comments requested a poem about the wet autumn to come. Anything to oblige:-

Owed to Keats

Season of floods and welly bootiness!
Close season for the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load a mess
Of mud and leaves that blocks the gutters' run;
To bend and break the flowers, crops and trees,
And blow all fruit unripened to the floor;
And swell the flood; we pump the watery smells
Out of the kitchen; then start building more,
And still more, flood defences to appease,
Builders who think warm days will never cease,
And rivers ne'er o'erbrim their clammy cells.

Who hath often been inside the store
Searching whatever needful he may find
For shifting sewage off a sitting room floor,
Thy hair rough-lifted by the winnowing wind,
Or on a half-blown lilo sound asleep,
Drowsed with the work of scrubbing, while you took
Spares for the pump and soap that smells like flowers;
And sometimes with a cleaner thou dost sweep -
Steady thy laden hands across that brook
That was thine entrance hall - with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the storms of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy troubles too, -
While laden clouds make dark the dying day
And lights the flooded plains with horrid hue
And in a wailful choir thunder clouds mourn
Along the river courses, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light of evening dies;
And thunder-claps loud rumble round hilly bourn;
Boreas sings - and not with treble soft -
But loudly whistles round the garden-croft;
And gathering rain clouds weep now from the skies.

Somewhat laboured (as such parodies tend to be) with any artistic merit belonging to the original, but just about fulfilling the brief I set myself.