House in the dark wood.
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This house stands on the six hundred foot contour,
cradled amongst a wood of blackened, bare boned Oaks.
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An Atlantic weather front had brought rain all day,
it was a bad storm we get every other winter,
but this one was worse than the others.
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That night — I listened to the wind throw spatters
of rain, hard at the windows, I can remember those first years now,
when gales blowing in off the mountain, clattered slates
of the old roof, that needed replacing, but we couldn’t afford it.
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And in the morning, the roadway had been turned into a stream,
but it was another winter without damage and we knew we’d get through.
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On nights like this, another storm, and I sit reading, unable to sleep,
wrapped in a shawl, listening to a neighbour’s dog howl,
worrying about my daughter and hoping she’ll recover.
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©robcullen01122020.
