A Squall Poem by Nicholas Green

Rape takes the house
Into the attic of cold yet

Ravening pulls the north down
Onto Frinton sensibilities yet

A lustrous and frankly insatiable
Hunger falls upon the roof yet

Conservative tiles made of sandwiches
Crack and do not crack yet

The weird howl of a lonely wind
Suggests desolation yet

It is unimaginable that this wind
Will find a prowling home yet

The outcast is doomed to wander
Like a pack hunting suburban yet

This insanity is far too bitter to claw
Sobriety out of doors yet

Send the northern world back
To my gust of solo confidence

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