Beach House Firewood
an indigo sky does not bode well
for remaining dry though a lighter patch
among the clouds reveals the sun's position.
I miss walking by water when the rain comes;
that distant hiss that grows louder as the rain approaches
and you run, laughing, for the dubious shelter
of an oak or a stand of silver birch, their papery bark
begging to be peeled off and burned in a fire
of dry gorse and driftwood and the green flare
of salt-encrusted logs beached at high tide
and dragged home with the aid of a bit of rope
washed overboard from a trawler
while your orange-haired dog drops
an old tennis ball at your feet and shakes.