A storm. Buckets of rain.
A shaking of trees.
A long looping branch starts to turn
a 100 pounder gun in a tank turret
slowly swinging through a Dalek arc
in the direction of the neighbour’s chimney stack
that it can’t quite reach
so it stretches to give a final malicious shove.
The stack comes toppling down.
Cracks split and distort walls
the house resembles a wedding cake
that gets dropped in a game
of drunken horseplay
to roll across the wooden dance floor.
Then the sun sort of comes out.
No-one seems concerned.
All of the houses have their blemishes
slants and slopes, crooked windows and doors.
Life goes on just the same.