A Blast of Trumpet

In the lamplight's golden glow
the little room's so cosy.
The kettle steaming on the stove
makes the tea quite rosy.
On laying down my oldest book
to try some buttered crumpet,
I left my chair to upward look
and heard a blast of trumpet.
Quite late I thought to hunt the fox,
I don't know why they do it.
That morning I'd heard hens and cocks:
no peace to get me through it.
The afternoon was spent indoors -
I did not do the garden.
For when it rains it really pours,
to that we all must harden.
On looking out from these small windows
upon the April showers,
the daffodil and crocus rows
seemed very lovely flowers.
As then I looked upon my plate
and saw a spring bouquet,
I thought it isn't ever too late
to feel that life's OK.
And taking one ginormous bite
from off my buttered crumpet
I felt my throat get very tight
with a second blast of trumpet.
Choking through my cup of tea
and trying to dislodge it,
it ended up I could not see
and nothing seemed to budge it.
Confused by this and quite perplexed
it was a time to worry.
Did I need some brand new specs
or the converse of this flurry?
All was panic in my head
struggling with the crumpet.
What a relief when nearly dead
to hear another trumpet.
With that sound that was so shrill
I started to feel better.
For bringing up what had made me ill
with tea my throat was wetter.
And turning now to read my book
and finish off the chapter
I wonder if the hunt described
brings pleasure, pain or laughter.