The storm

The slow build up to the storm deceived me.

The still air lay heavy on the roof. The roof supported
it. I was unmoved. Though apart we were each enclosed.

Then the other air came. It moved off the ocean;
soft breath gathered up into a roar.
Not a hat wind, a chair or a table wind – more.

It assailed the roof. So strong that on the ridge
the flashing lifted. So strong that the terra cotta finial,
blown from the pediment, fell

and smashed slates slid.
The world tilted.

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