The View
The storm grumbled irksome at our feet,
Breathing heavily through the coarse unforgetful
Grass in your grinning urban hills.
The charred ruby rooftops paddled out
Along the valley floor. Your house,
The detached and nostalgic of the row,
Looked small, cold-worn, frown-proud,
The marshal of the team. The steady
Beat of the tongue-grey slate,
A hacked smokers cough, chilling
Into the Welsh rooftops. Barking
Loosely, the sly clouds belly crawled
Across the waves of mounding baize.
I sat with arms around my knees,
You circled eights upon my back.