Watching the rainstorm through an open skylight
I have never felt so cosy.
Ash leaves lap fatly at the drenched air,
Splaying like wet bats at each gush of sea wind
Then slapping back down as black oilskins
Or a haul of thrashing sprats.
The full moon is burning through the cloudbank,
Lamplight in biscuit-coloured smoke
Haloed by a smudged circuit of rainbow.
Turn their gable ends against the storm,
Slick brickwork bright as milk;
Bald knurls of branches nod and flash with every surge;
Chimney pots glow like strange, sad fish.
I can feel the carpet through my socks.
Tomorrow morning, the hatch in the floor will lift,
And a big mug of hot, sweet tea
Will appear beside my shoes.
Out in the gale,
Trees heave and gasp
Trying to shake themselves dry.
Rain crackles at roof tiles.
I fall asleep to the soft drum of the storm,
Loft snug as a galleon hold.