I miss most waking up to turn my head,
glimpse through pillow-level port hole
rain-hit swells or air-stilled calms
or wind-thrown waves. Knowing first thing
the kind of day we had.
I miss, as much, dealing with heavy rain.
Pinning the corners of plastic bags to cracks,
trimming the bucket’s position to catch the drips.
Tensing tarpaulin ropes. Bailing out.
Rain so loud there’s no talk of method.
I miss postponing everything
for urgent weather-proofing.
Now back on land, under a holeless roof,
I peer at huddled trees for slanting rain.
If I’m quiet I can hear tyres splashing puddles.
If I’m still I can smell city-muted dampness.
Today the wind is up. Some roads are flooded.
Eight miles west a storm mauls your boat.
With bag in one hand, pins in the other,
I think of you inventing practical tricks
to keep the weather out, patch up the leaking deck,
ensure you’re dry, today.
I open wide my squarely-fitted window,
feel drizzle spot my face. The clouds are moving fast.
Published in The Rialto, No.48