One particularly weather institution that I'm fascinated with, however, is the shipping forecast. This is just a radio broadcast of the weather around the British Isles, but it's read out in a very particular (and peculiar) way: An irregular grid marks 31 areas, each named something ridiculous like 'Viking,' 'Dogger,' or 'German Bight,' which are read out clockwise followed by wind direction, strength, precipitation, sea state, and visibility -- with no intervening descriptions! For example: "Rockall. Southwest gale 8 to storm 10, veering west, severe gale 9 to violent storm 11. Rain, then squally showers. Poor, becoming moderate. Southeast Iceland. North 7 to severe gale 9. Heavy snow showers. Good, becoming poor in showers. Moderate icing." The result is almost hypnotic, and since the last report is at 12:48am, many Brits use it as a sleep aid.
Since I mentioned Britain's poet laureate the other day, it seems only appropriate to reference another of her works, the last line of which made no sense when I first read it.
PRAYER by Carol Ann Duffy Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer utters itself. So a woman will lift her head from the sieve of her hands and stare at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift. Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth enters our hearts, that small familiar pain; then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth in the distant Latin chanting of a train. Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales console the lodger looking out across a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls a child's name as though they named their loss. Darkness outside. Inside the radio's prayer - Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre
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