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foto©robcullen01122020.

House in the dark wood.

-

This house stands on the six hundred foot contour,

cradled amongst a wood of blackened, bare boned Oaks.

-

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.

-

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.

-

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.

-

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.

-

©robcullen01122020.

Rob Cullen artist, writer, poet. Rob runs “Voices on the Bridge” a poetry initiative in Wales. Walks hills and mountains daily with a sheep dog at his side.

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