the mystical pull
of the outside
tugs against
the rational arguments
of cold
and wet
and windswept
wrapped up
in coat and gloves
I stroll
camera poised
for mother nature’s
spring treasures
of golden blooms
hidden in
shady hedgerows
in between
the brambles
and when
the hailstorm
I tuck the camera away
and grin
as hailstones
sting my cheeks
and bounce off
my gloved fingers
and in my heart
I’m dancing
in the

the roof stayed on

wind’s getting up again

he mutters

all over the telly it is
trees down
power out
everybody panic
like it’s something new
you’d think it never blew before

he kneels, with a gentle sigh

these young ‘uns are soft
act like electricity’s their right
and this new-fangled internet-whatsit
moaning when they can’t update
their face-block thingummy

he runs his hand along the cold wet stone
shaking his head

they’ve forgotten
what really matters
haven’t they?

he carefully takes a flower from his shopping bag
arranges it neatly

remember how we used to sit
with just that small candle
flickering in the draught
we’d talk long into the night
or if the wind was calm
and candle-light steady
we’d read together, pressed in close
and all that mattered
was we had eachother
and the roof stayed on

ah …
those were the days

he pulls himself to his feet
with difficulty

stands, wet knees and all

goodbye my love
’til next time

he slowly leaves the grave yard
and limps slowly home

to his empty house
with the roof still on