Light has not yet arrived,
comes same time as the
crows, while waiting, I'm
listening to the tidal winds
funnelling forlornly down
our redundant chimney.

Blocked gutters dropping
water making messages in
Morse on the letter box.

The window pane has a
missive in Braille from
spits of rain which have
yet to pair up before their
descending demise.

Three orange halogen street
lights form a perfect Isosceles
triangle, beacons beckoning,
miniature lighthouses, landing
pad locaters, for the sun

                \\|| / /