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.