The wind pushes the rain, buffets, bullies,
all around and down, it falls incessant.
But not here.
It lashes, pummels,  mizzle.
While we wait, in shelter hide,
there is always the leeside.

Behind a boulder tall as a house,
under the overhanging rock,
facing down the valley to the road.
Side on to the ridge, lean into the mountain,
look down,  figures in the distance,
turn back away.

At a bus stop, somewhere lost,
not wanting the bus,
just shelter and dry clothes.
Downstairs, at the edge of the bay,
while a troubled youth sleeps on,
not wanting him to wake.

Inside the hood of the coat,
back to the rain, back to the wind,
walking with wet legs and damp dogs.
Under umbrellas, crushed,
inverted, on on the Hoe,
or backed under an arch
on the limestone wall,
the rain chases out the sea.

Outside a strangers house,
reading “The White Hotel”,
hoping for company.
Even at home, front doorstep,
smoking, tea in hand,
watching the day develop pointlessly.

Under the eaves of a ruined house,
on a frightend council estate,
where other people live.
From the tiled changing room block,
willing the waterlogged fields of play dry.

Hidden behind the failing groynes,
by firelight, rod and reel unshelterd,
fish for their own sake.
Snug, clautrophobic dens, carved in dunes,
plastic sheets, old wood, damp sand,
pushing our time to its limits.

Best of all, more than once,
in a car, atop a cliff, broadside to the wind,
Loe Bar, Gunwalloe, thereabouts.
Looking over the sea to Mounts Bay,
wondering about the rocks below.
A stolen lunchtime,
pasty, Missa Pro Defunctis, Sanctus.
Rain drumming on the roof,
off beat, but in time.
Silently watching the wind and rain,
nothing but watching the wind and rain.
A time of inconsequential perfection.

In the lee.
On the leeside.

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