Your mother is a broad tin roof

The rain is your mother
when she’s angry

And when she sings
your sleepless night to sleep

The see-saw of the tin
A deflection

Against the hem of morning 
a familiar spill

The mottled face
against proud heat
a hand cool-ly calming

Her shadow
for a while, while you sleep

Keeps the rest at least
a blanket thick, and almost noiseless day

Until you’ve done
with the mewled noise
of your forgetting

Shout hail

Somewhere it rains
Somewhere you go out
In the first shreds of rain
Wreathed in ice-cream breath
Not here
Here you stay in
After the lash
After the capsize threat
After the rimfire cadence snare
The ground and branches ricochet
In that frenetic St Vitas dance
Of tremolo ingrained
In the timpanic surface
Shout, hail
The rivers coalesce
Become trees
Everyone steps outside
In the bruise-belly afterglow
In the broken, fever-pale wax
Solemnly righting bins and barrows
As if these were the remains
Of reliquary saints, or fallen cricketers
Resurrected to defend the crease
Of warfare green limned in wounds
Of white-stained efflorescence