Bad Weather

Two sounds predominate: the rain against
Our panes, like bacon crisping in the pan,
An under hiss, refusing to be timed
By any metronome except the wind's;
And wind itself, heard only as it flows
Around or through opposing shapes - walls, doors,
The cracks where casements don't quite fit their frames -
A roar, a drone, a sigh, irregular
As drowning men's heartbeats but patterned like,
Within an ageless frame, old Homer's or
Sad Virgil's throbbing lines, repeating tales
Far older than their shipwrecked travellers'.

Two colours also: machair greens; and greys -
The sky a steaming screen of driven rain,
Writhing with scarves of slate, steel, ash and dove.
Inside, the brighter for excluding these,
Pine walls; the hearthside's furnace glow; golden
Light off my mug of tea's miniscus, whose
Warm tilting, though my ears throb with the ache
Of unseen hosepipes playing on the roof,
Can summon up the sun on ships becalmed