for Phil Morrish, watching weather roll in

It’s black over Bill’s mothers,
as my gran used to say,
sky folding in like a sulky coat,
clouds brewing trouble above the allotments
and the chip van queue.

From my office perch,
tea cooling on the sill,
I watch the world darken
in that slow, theatrical way
only East Midlands skies can manage.

The rooftops hunch.
The pigeons pause mid-peck.
Even the flowers seem to brace.

I think of Bill’s mum,
whoever she was,
forever cast as the harbinger of rain,
her laundry flapping in mythic wind,
her garden swallowed by shadow.

And me,
still here,
half-dreaming in spreadsheets and verse,
wondering if the storm
might wash something clean
or just remind me how much
I love a good bit of weather drama.