The wind rattles the doors, shakes the windows.
Its hollow breath booms in the throat of the chimney.
It blows in through the eaves, the midnight slots
where pieces of the bricks that complete
the puzzle of a house are missing.
The same black squares where starlings
smuggle their dazzle and stash it in the dark.
Plastic sheeting, you can hear it in the loft,
shaken by the wind.
Rain crackles on the roof and accentuates
the sound of car tyres as they spray
through channels on the road.
Houses do their best to cut you off.
It was a different affair in the caravan.
Each raindrop made itself known.
An acorn was a startling bomb.
But even now, cocooned by bricks and years,
each boom, rattle, spray
could bring this moment to an end.