Showers, forecast after the event;

a stumbling, spilling from the

stone bowl of the sky.

A gift of inside hours

to watch, and watch the writing come.

Across the pencilled landscape,

a charcoal smudge of rain

becomes a clicking as of hail,

small claws on a tin roof

as you type, ethereal

in the screens glow,

resurrecting the never dead

who get a line of life,

a fate of bookshelves,

a killing of critics.

On days like this

the queue of souls

is visible in the hills.

They come grey across the water.

They slide towards the house.

There is a fall of words.