I go to my room for an afternoon nap,

leave the curtains open

to watch the last of the day.

 

Thirty minutes later the lights

of the stone cottages are on. 

The wind along Longframlington's 

 

ridge is blowing hard, which 

gives me comfort, wrapped in warmth

inside, even when it howls a little. 

 

Sometimes it's a sea battle, 

guns thundering. A mile or two

outside the village, upon the hills,  

 

lie the borderlands, ruins of an inn,

a haunted highway. Last night

on the way to the pub we saw 

 

Jupiter shining brightly,

right next to the Moon.