And now the Shipping Forecast...

And now the shipping forecast, with news of gales and rain,

The history and tradition of a country’s maritime gain.

An Island Nation’s pride, broadcast far and free,

A poetic information service; the lyric of the sea.

Issued by the Met Office at oh-five-hundred GMT,

And at other times, of course, broadcast on BBC.

Bringing news of calm and storm; fore-teller of calamity. 

A much desired and wished for maritime formality.

The general synopsis at midnight, a prelude to the piece,

Deep depressions, moving fast; winds on the increase.

The mariner gets pen and paper, poised to write down all,

Presenter please speak slow and clear - can’t write quicker than a crawl!

North Utsire, South Utsire, where are they, for sure?

Long way from Helford River, far from yonder shore.

Starting from the north and working clockwise round,

The forecast makes its progress, certain, sure and sound.

Forties, Fisher, Forth; Dogger, German Bight,

The winds are backing westerly, gales throughout the night.

Occasional rain and showers, good occasionally poor,

The language of the forecast, familiar shore to shore.

Portland, Plymouth, Biscay, now this is precious near,

The mariner bows his head and listens, speaker by his ear.

Southwesterly 5 or 6, increasing gale 8,

‘Oh dear, oh dear, that is not good, might even make me late!’

Moderate, becoming rough, they say; the seas are getting up,

The mariner nods his head and drains his coffee cup.

The tot of rum he added (as men of sea are want to do),

Gives warmth and courage and fortitude - or at least, it is said to.

The forecast carries on; Biscay, Rockall, Malin,

‘Even worse up there’, he notes, ‘glad I’m not headin’ for Shannon’.

The mariner girds his loins, in a manner so to speak,

He gathers up his oilskins and boots from the forepeak.

Prepared for inclement weather, he takes the vessel’s deck,

He views the scudding clouds, the rain; feels water down his neck.

Waves large and green with white caps are present in the distance.

‘Bugger this’, he says, with particular insistence.

And now the shipping forecast; Portland Plymouth Biscay,

Southerly force 3 or 4, the makings of a good day.

Slight or moderate, sunny skies, rain a distant memory,

The mariner comes up on deck, face all lined and leathery.

He checks the time, prepares to leave, sails untied and free,

Then goes back down, turns on the set and listens to the Beeb.

Well, it wouldn’t do to go just yet, wouldn’t want to be surprised,

The Shipping Forecast’s on again - I’ll leave just after five...