Poker Face Sky
No storm today. Rain and a trudge around some local damage.
In the lanes potholes are ground deeper by a swill of loose stone.
The fat trunked ash is conveniently falling twig by twig.
Next door fares a leaky front room and a greenhouse left more frame than glass.
We lean over the fence, observe the wrecked reflective pieces.
Elsewhere; we note; other people are prising trees out of roofs: evacuated: more, much more is forecast: weather talk stumbles out of the anodyne zone into an apocalypse.
The sky lies on the horizon, innocuous grey, keeps us guessing.